How I wished that “someone” was him, but obviously it wasn’t, since he was standing right in front of me.
“Here, let me take this.” He scooped all the gifts into his big muscled arms. “You get your phone.”
“You sure?”
“I’m good. Got ’em.”
“Thanks.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket, looked at the screen and whispered, “Shit. It’s Astrid.”
“Who’s Astrid?” Harry asked, his voice rough like he needed to swallow. “Sorry, that’s none of my business. Is she your girlfriend?”
“No, she’s my manager,” I replied absently, looking at the messages on my phone.
I’m about to call you. You need to answer!—was the first message.
Our little problem just got a whole lot bigger!—was the second.
The third message was a photo of an envelope sitting inside an open drawer, or more precisely, the drawer of the desk in my dressing room back in LA.
“Oh fuck,” I uttered.
“Dean? Is everything okay?”
A second later, my phone rang. It was Astrid.
“I’m sorry, Harry. I really have to take this.” I turned and walked to the end of his porch, inhaling deeply before answering. “Astrid? What’s going on?”
Before I heard her voice I heard the sound of a cigarette lighter igniting. Astrid only ever smoked when she was stressed. “Dean, darling, I’m sorry to break it to you but your bloody stalker is back. I’ve just found another letter in your dressing room. Whoever this nutter is, they’ve broken into your home to leave their latest crazy-as-fuck calling card.”
“Oh shit. Really? How did they get in?”
“I have no idea, there’s literally no sign of a break-in anywhere inside the house. Bogdan is still searching the grounds to see if he can find any clues outside.”
“What are you doing at my house anyway?”
“I was looking for some of the rings you wore onstage during your last concert. The record label wants to auction them off for some charity event. I opened the top drawer on your desk and there was the letter, just sitting there. I’ve got to admit, this one scares me.”
I felt my stomach turn. “What does it say?”
I could hear Astrid take a puff on her cigarette then the rustle of paper. “It says, ‘Sing one more note and die. Release one more record and die. Leave LA… or die.’”
“Oh my God,” I breathed.
“Dean, darling, I know there’s a chance that this crazy fuck is just messing with you, but there’s also a chance things could get serious. The gossip rags already know you’ve left town, they know you’re in Wisconsin, apparently someone took a snap of you signing autographs at the airport. If this secret psycho admirer of yours is on your trail, I’m worried they’re going to come looking for you in Clodhopper County.”
“Mulligan’s Mill,” I corrected automatically.
“You know what I mean. The way I see it, we have two choices.”
“Which are?”
“Number one, we get the police involved. That’ll mean an investigation here in LA as well as getting the state police in Wisconsin involved to make sure this lunatic—”
“No! No cops. This town is my home. It’s the one safe haven I have left. I don’t need the police scaring the hell out of everyone in Mulligan’s Mill.”
“Dean, this stalker could be from anywhere. Did you ever consider the person writing these letters could already live in Mulligan’s Mill? It could be anybody. A school bully, a jealous girlfriend… anybody you’ve ever met could be responsible for trying to end your career.”
“Then maybe I should.”
