Chapter 34

ERIC

I crossed my arms, trying to stay calm. For the last thirty minutes, I'd been trying to convince Riley that he needed to leave Sunrise Bay. "You're not staying here on your own. We still don't know if the stalker was the one who broke into your cottage."

"And we might never know." Riley raised his chin defiantly. "Detective Jameson said it would take a few days to compare the fingerprints from the break-in to what they found in the warehouse. Even if they match, they might never find the person."

Alex chimed in, trying to diffuse the tension. "Bryant Security's sending the police the photos of the burglar. If it's the same person, they could use facial recognition software to identify him."

My eyes narrowed. "Only if he's been arrested before. But that's not what worries me. I'm worried about Riley and his mom."

Riley's jaw tightened. "We don't need you to look after us."

Alex cleared his throat, sensing the escalating argument. "There is an alternative solution."

"What is it?" I asked, hoping it was better than the roundabout conversation we'd been having.

"You could all stay with me. It'd be a tight squeeze, but it would only be for a few days."

Riley shook his head. "Mom's going home tomorrow afternoon, so it's better if she stays here. And I can't leave my paintings and art supplies." He looked straight at me. "You could stay with Alex until the reporters have gone."

I ran my hands through my hair, feeling the stress build up. "If the fingerprints belong to the stalker, you could get hurt."

Riley pulled the printout of Alex's spreadsheet closer. "So far, the stalker's recreated most of what has happened up to chapter five of your book. He hasn't done anything for…" he checked the date on the last column, "…six days. That's the longest break he's had from contacting you or doing anything crazy."

"That we know about," I muttered, earning another frosty glare.

Riley ran his hand down one of the columns, analyzing it. "Aaron Connelly, the hero of your series, has been tracking the person who killed the woman in the warehouse. If the stalker's following the book's timeline, you'll be sent a photo of the murder scene in the next few days."

Alex typed something on his laptop. "According to my calculations, there's a ninety-eight percent chance the photo will be sent to Eric's agent in the next twelve hours."

I studied the spreadsheet, noting the chilling accuracy. "There are two things wrong with your prediction. First off, the stalker must know the police can track his emails and letters. Why would he keep sending them? And secondly, the stalker doesn't know if my agent's sending me the letters."

"You disappeared from Brooklyn," Riley countered, glancing at Alex. "I'd say that was a big clue as to whether you know about the stalker. What if the break-in was his way of telling us he knows where you're living?"

I sat back in my chair, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. "Then he's not as smart as he thinks he is. If the burglar and stalker are the same person, we know what he looks like. Once the police have compared the fingerprints, he'll be arrested."

Alex's jaw tightened. "I hope for your sake it's sooner rather than later. For the record, I'm with Riley. I don't believe he was the target. Even after the burglar triggered the alarm, they had time to grab a couple of paintings. But they didn't take anything from the studio or the rest of the house. Either they were looking for something specific, or they realized they were in the wrong side of the cottage."

"Or they didn't expect the house to have an alarm," Riley added. "If the burglar was looking for high-value art, they wouldn't have found any. The canvases on my side of the cottage are at least ten years old. They aren't something a collector would want."

"Have you had the paintings valued recently?" I asked, my mind racing with possibilities.

Riley shook his head. "They're not as good as the ones I paint now."

"When an artist sells their work for more than fifty thousand dollars, even the earlier paintings can reach high prices."

Heat rose to Riley's face. "How do you know how much my paintings have sold for?"

Alex slowly lifted his hand, guilty as charged. "That would have been me. My only defense is that I'm a professional snoop and couldn't help myself."

Riley took Alex's admission of guilt better than I would have. "Don't believe everything you read. The ones that sell for that much are usually large canvases. I paint a lot of smaller ones, too."

"I didn't purposefully look for what you earn," Alex told him. "The sale price of some of your paintings appeared on one of my searches."

Riley shrugged. "It doesn't matter. But in case you're wondering, I'm not a billionaire."

Alex seemed relieved. "In that case, I'll buy you a coffee next time we're in town. Now, what about the stalker?"

I pointed to the spreadsheet. "I'll be the first to admit there are similarities between my first novel and the stalker's movements. But that doesn't mean he'll keep following the rest of the story."

"Check out these stats," Alex said, turning his laptop around. "The predictability algorithm is off the charts. From when your agent received the first message, the stalker's actions have mimicked your book almost exactly."

Alex might be a genius with computers, but relying on an algorithm to anticipate someone's behavior didn't sit well with me. Especially when they were comparing a fictional character, living in a make-believe world, to a real person who should be locked away.

"Aaron Connelly never broke into someone's home," I reminded Alex.

"But he did travel across three states to find the person responsible for the woman's death," Alex replied.

"And look at this." Riley pointed to the entry that matched the date of the break-in. "Jericho Walton, aka your novel's bad guy, broke into an associate's apartment to steal thousands of dollars. I don't have that kind of money lying around, but the principle's the same."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Why couldn't Riley see how much danger he was in? "If Riley stays in the cottage, and that's a big if, how will he look after himself?" I directed my question to Alex, but Riley jumped in.

"Hello. I'm sitting right here." He sent a pleading look in Alex's direction. "Someone with immense technical know-how could stay with me. Between my self-defense moves and his ability to predict the future, we have all contingencies covered."

"Except for one crucial fact," Alex said half-apologetically. "We're dealing with someone who's mentally unstable. If I stay with you and something happens, I'd never forgive myself. Eric's right. You shouldn't stay here on your own. Your mom would be the first person to agree with us."

At the mention of his mom, Riley's shoulders sagged. He sat silently, staring at the spreadsheet. "Okay. I'll stay with you for a few days, but that's all. Do you have somewhere I can paint?"

"My mezzanine floor will be perfect." Alex sent Riley a reassuring smile. "You've made the right decision."

Moving to Alex's home solved one problem, but it didn't remove the biggest hurdle. "When do we leave?" I asked.

Alex closed his laptop. "My house is ready whenever you are."

I stared at Riley.

"A local television station already knows about the burglary," Alex said. "We should move fairly quickly. What about seven o'clock tomorrow morning?"

"What about now?" I replied.

Riley checked his watch. "It's nearly eleven o'clock."

"We'll be at Alex's home before midnight."

"What am I going to tell Mom?" Riley groaned.

I thought it was obvious, but Riley knew his mom better than I did. "The truth?"

"I can't wake her and say, ‘Mom, a crazy stalker's recreating the scenes in Eric's books and we think he broke into the cottage.' She won't go back to Indianapolis without me."

At the risk of being raked over hot coals, I said, "That's not a bad idea."

Riley's eyes narrowed. "I'm not going back to my mom's house."

Alex snorted. "You won't win that argument, Eric."

I sent Alex a glare reserved for psychotic criminals.

"Save your bad cop look for another time," Alex told me. "We're in a stressful situation, and we're doing the best we can. Do you want me to take Sherlock in my truck when I leave?"

I glanced at the furry black shadow sound asleep on the sofa. "He'll be okay with me. Can you take some of Riley's art supplies with you?"

"Sure."

Riley stood, his blue eyes focused on me. "I hope we're doing the right thing."

"Staying here would be worse." And for the first time, I was one hundred percent certain we had to leave.