Page 20 of Killer Notes
at a distance. No one touches you but me. Or someone
else will get hurt… or die.
Your Love
I glance up at John, then to Danny, who’s visibly shaking in Connor’s arms. Returning my attention to my partner, I ask, “Who brought the note in?”
“No one knows. The receptionist found it on her desk and she only brought it to our attention a few minutes ago,” John explains as Ron joins us.
“Video footage?” It’s all I get out before Ron shakes his head.
“I called the security folks. They are working on getting the surveillance footage to me as soon as they can,” he says angrily. “What should we do now?”
“Is this session done?” I ask the manager.
“Yeah, except for any minor changes, but the band is done for now.”
“I need everyone to sit down. John and I will be right back.” With my partner beside me, we move out to the hallway for privacy.
“You have a plan,” he says grimly.
“Maybe. I think we need to separate Danny from the rest of the group, for everyone’s safety. But first let’s get the guys back to the condo where it’s more secure and then we’ll call Harper with that idea.”
“They aren’t going to like it. Especially Connor,” John says.
“I don’t give a fuck what the drummer says or wants. My only concern is for Danny. With Danny away from his friends, the stalker won’t go after the band. They will focus on finding the singer.”
“That just might work,” John says with a nod and we walk back into the lounge.
Ron doesn’t look happy. As astute and perceptive as the manager is, he knows we’re keeping him out of the loop, but that’s too fucking bad. He’ll soon know once I get the clear to take Danny away from here.
“We leave the exact way we came,” I say, eyeing Danny, who’s still visibly upset. He takes out the tube of gloss and coats his lips with it several times.
There’s no doubt, with today’s note, the stalker is watching Danny. If the threat is true, and Danny shows any affection to anyone else, someone is going to get hurt, or worse.
I’m not going to allow that. Or let anyone else be in the line of fire.
The drive back to the condo is quiet like a tomb. Not even the obnoxious drummer has anything to say.
As I pull up to the underground garage, the metal door is wide open with no vehicle in sight. It strikes me as odd, but I slowly drive down to the security touch keys—only to see that the screen has been smashed.
I want to back out, but there’s a car stationed behind me, honking its horn for me to move.
“What’s going on?” Connor asks.
“Someone smashed the keypad for the garage door,” I explain and carefully pull inside and move over to let the asshole behind me pass. It’s tight, but with his tiny car, they have no issues getting around me.
Activating the blue tooth on the car, I call John, but he doesn’t answer. I round the corner until the reserved parking spot and John’s SUV comes into view. Then I see it. The bold red lettering, in spray paint on the wall.
“You’re going to die BITCH.”
Now why is the word bitch in all caps?
I swing my vehicle next to John’s, leaving the engine on. I call my partner once more. This time his voice echoes out of the speakers.
“Did you see it?” he thunders.
“Yes. Where are you?” I ask in a rush.