Page 99 of Beautiful Life
Uncrossing his arms, he leans forward onto his desk. “Then I can breathe easy, because I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. And I could give a shit what she is to you now. I don’t want anything to do with her. I told the police the same thing earlier this week when they paid me a friendly visit. I have no idea what note or pictures you’re talking about, but maybe I’ll think about getting my own restraining order and we’ll see how you like it.”
“How did you know about her apartment? You told her mom where to find her,” I charge.
His face immediately goes hard and he knows he’s been caught. Crossing his arms again he admits, “I have a contact at the hospital. When they changed her address on her employment information, they let me know. But I swear to you, I couldn’t be fucking happier she’s out of my life. She was a fucking headache and I’m glad it’s done. I wanted to make sure she was nowhere near me.”
Don’t ask me why and don’t ask me how, but I know exactly what the officer meant when he told Jude he believed the asswipe didn’t send the pictures and note the first time. It’s not his style. He’s cocky and self-indulged. I can’t imagine him demeaning himself to lurking around and following someone, taking pictures.
“Maybe you need to look elsewhere for enemies, what with your winning personality. I’m sure you won’t have to look far,” he huffs. “Are we done here? I have work to do.”
“Who’s your contact at the hospital?” I demand.
“I’m not telling you that.”
“You don’t tell me, I go straight to the police and report you were checking up on her whereabouts. That’s a violation of your restraining order and now your probation. You want me to do that, say the word—your ass is in jail and you can kiss your job goodbye. I don’t care how many levels you were demoted, you can’t work from prison.” I lay it out, knowing I have him by the balls and also knowing I can always use this later if I need to. I really want the jackass at the hospital who’s releasing personal information of employees.
Preston’s not stupid, he sees he’s in between a rock and a hard place. He huffs, shakes his head, and looks to the side. He finally turns back to me. “The administrative assistant to the head of HR.”
“I’ll say this one more time—leave Leigh the fuck alone. There’s no reason for you to check up on her anymore. She’ll be living at my address, under my roof, and sleeping in my bed. If I see or hear of you anywhere close, you can kiss your life as you know it goodbye.” With that I turn to leave.
I have a burning hole in my gut that something isn’t right even though I just talked to Leigh. She was at home with the alarm on. She even made me smile when she sheepishly told me she was rearranging things in the kitchen. I told her she could do whatever she wanted with anything in the house, I was pretty sure my mom or sisters put shit where it is and since I hardly cook, I could care less. She giggled with a, “Okay. I’ll rearrange the whole house today.”
I’m in my car and decide to head home to tell Leigh about the latest note. I promised I wouldn’t keep anything from her again and I won’t. She and I can take Paige to lunch. Maybe Paige can talk her into coming back to the office this afternoon.
I’m about a half a mile from home when my phone rings. I frown as I look at the display and answer. “Tony Carpino.”
“Mr. Carpino, this is ADT. Can you please provide your security code?”
I gun my engine, knowing what this could be and bite, “Basketball. Has something happened at my house?”
“Yes, sir. You’re not home? Your alarm has been triggered from a window in the back of the house.”
“I’m not home, but my wife is.” I take a corner in my neighborhood three times faster than I should. “I’m on my way now, almost there.”
“We’ve dispatched the police, sir. Please wait for them to get there before entering the home,” she directs.
“My wife is in the house. There’s no way I’m waiting outside,” I declare.
“Sir, please wait for the police.”
“You can tell them I’m going in.” I hang up.
When I pull up to the curb, nothing seems amiss. I dial Leigh’s phone and wait. It rings and rings, finally going to voice mail. I call my house phone next and get the same. The house alarm is still going strong and loud, cutting into my fucking heartbeat that I swear is beating in my ears.
Shit.
Reaching down I grab my gun out of my ankle holster, looking around before getting out and quickly making my way to the backyard. The gate has been left open so I peek around the fence and look toward the back of my house before moving. I see the large window over the deck by the kitchen busted through. It’s impossible to listen for anything as the ear-piercing alarm is cutting through the quiet, spring midday.
Wondering how long it’s going to take the police to get here, I keep moving toward the back of my house, go to the basement door, and use my key to get in. Looking before I turn the corner, I don’t see anything disturbed. Still not hearing a thing other than the ringing of the fucking alarm, I start to move up the stairs with my back to the wall. I peek around the corner and look into the kitchen where the window is broken, but I move to the right with my gun up and ready, making my way toward the front of my house. Clearing my office and dining room, I head to the back hall toward the kitchen.
I sense movement from the side and turn to see someone duck.
“Stop!” I yell over the alarm with my back to the wall.
I move fast, not wanting them to circle and come at me from behind. I get to the corner and look around when I see something flinging. I move behind the wall and a bar stool comes crashing to the corner, splitting it into pieces with the noise breaking into the alarm. Narrowly missing most the debris, I move around the corner to see him backing up into the kitchen around the other side of the island.
He looks different from the pictures but there’s no doubt. It’s Cory Blaton, Richard Blaton’s son, the kid who’s been missing since last Saturday night when his father was taken into custody. He’s definitely no kid. He’s a man, but you can tell there’s something not right.
He’s agitated—almost unhinged—as he backs away from me and into the kitchen. I have my gun up and trained on him, though, he looks unarmed. His clothes are filthy and worn, his light brown hair dirty and disheveled. He might be five ten, maybe five eleven with some meat on him. But it’s his eyes that give away his state of mind.
