Chapter Twenty-Four

Allen

Brielle takes in my team, then swivels her head to look at me. “It’s almost like there is a minimum height requirement to be able to work here.”

I shrug. “Never even noticed it, to be honest. I look at character, experience, and skill set. Besides, Hope’s only what, five seven?”

“Five seven and a half, thank you very much,” my accountant/office manager pipes up. “And I brought donuts. They’re on the credenza.”

We settle in around the conference table.

“Okay, here’s what we have so far,” I begin. “A series of voicemails and texts, starting about four months ago, that have progressed in frequency and intensity. Also, whoever this is hacked her home unit to display a countdown. Pete has been able to confirm that on at least one occasion the caller was located within seventy yards of Brielle’s home.”

I tilt my head Pete’s direction for him to continue the narrative.

“Yes, one of the last calls she received before Allen hid her was from a neighbor’s back yard,” he confirms. “Allen visually confirmed evidence of an unknown individual using a treehouse two doors down to spy on her. But Marlon’s search yielded no prints, not even on the infrared binoculars. Whoever is watching her is at least smart enough to glove up.”

“They were infrared?” Brielle asks.

“Yes.”

I can tell she has made the connection between the binoculars and what looked like tripod stand marks in the dust by the way she turns pale and darts her eyes quickly to me.

“You aren’t worried about me being videotaped,” she accuses quietly. “You think they are going to try to shoot at me from the treehouse.”

The mood in the room turns even more somber.

“I believe that is a possibility, yes.”

“So that’s why I couldn’t just stay home.”

“Yes.”

“Is it even safe to go back?”

I look at Pete.

“Brielle,” he says gently, “five more messages came through while the two of you were gone.”

She closes her eyes, but her voice is calm when she says, “What did they say?”

“I don’t think that’s important. What’s important here is – “

“Pete,” she says firmly. “What did they say?”

He glances at me, and I nod.

“All about the same, actually,” he tells us, his face devoid of expression. “But they got creative with the last one.”

He taps a button on his laptop and the stalker’s altered voice fills the room.

You can’t hide forever. I’m coming for you. Nothing will stop me, and your screams as you die will sound like sweet music.

A long, heavy silence descends when Pete taps the button again to turn it off.

I look at Brielle, and she locks eyes with me.

“Well, then,” she finally says, “I guess we had better make sure it doesn’t come to that.”

I reach over and take her hand.

“It won’t,” I promise solemnly, then turn my attention back to my team.

“Now, we think the countdown is in reference to the Realtors’ Association dinner that’s taking place Saturday night at the new hotel and conference center on Lake Grapevine. I want Mark and Sam to follow us out there later to look around. But first, I want to walk you all through some things that we brainstormed on our drive back and get your input.”

***

Two hours later, after Brielle has traded her yoga pants out for jeans, she is beside me in the Caravan’s front seat again and we are driving toward Lake Grapevine to scope out the location that I hope like hell results in a successful mission Saturday night. Mark and Sam are following behind in Mark’s truck to check out the exterior layout, while my focus will be on the interior.

On Brielle’s left hand is the stunning engagement ring that Hope loaned to us.

“From what I hear that place is ritzy, and you can’t go there and pretend to be engaged without some sort of fabulous ring,” Hope pointed out before she slid her own rings off and handed over her two-carat solitaire. “So here you go. Just take care of it. Jason will have my ass if something happens to that thing.”

I immediately made a mental note to ask Hope later about the ring size when I noticed it fit perfectly on Brielle’s finger.

Brielle

The young twenty-something woman that greets us when we arrive at the hotel’s front lobby is stunning, with long blonde hair and sultry blue eyes, and the way she looks at Allen – like he is some delectable treat just waiting to be tasted – makes me want to punch her right in the mouth.

You really wanna go there, little girl?

I can sense Allen’s quietly amused discomfort, so I opt to squash little miss super-friendly’s game right out of the gate.

“My fiancé and I are looking into venues for our wedding reception,” I tell her with a smile, as I lightly stress the words fiancé and wedding.

When the flash in her eyes conveys that she sees my words as a challenge to be conquered, Allen’s demeanor changes completely.

“And she’s the love of my life,” he tells her as he wraps an arm around my waist, “so I want our wedding to be as perfect as she is.”

He proceeds to kiss me right in front of her until I am almost breathless, and when he is done, the look on her face – a disappointed resignation – is priceless.

“Now, young lady,” he says condescendingly, “if we could take a tour, please, that would be most helpful.”

“Yes sir, right this way,” she responds, all business now, and I bite back a chuckle when Allen winks at me as if to say you’re welcome the moment her back is turned.

She walks swiftly ahead of us as Allen and I stroll leisurely together, and he takes advantage of the distance to whisper, “I felt like a piece of meat just now.”

“I could tell,” I whisper back. “But don’t worry, Allen. I wouldn’t have let Miss Teen Queen anywhere near you.”

“I’m pretty sure I have t-shirts in my closet that are older than her,” he murmurs, trying his best not to laugh.

The young woman stops outside a set of double doors.

“This area, the Atrium, tends to be very popular for all sorts of gatherings, including receptions,” she announces as she opens the doors and beckons to us to follow.

The room is spacious and elegant, a wide rectangle with subtle light cream walls and a gorgeous mahogany hardwood floor. But its signature feature is a long exterior wall composed entirely of thick glass that affords a spectacular view of the lake.

My eyes travel upward to see that the glass curves at the top of the wall, partially extending into the ceiling, as well, and as I walk across the room, I notice that even though the sun is overhead the room remains a comfortable temperature.

I mention that, and she smiles, her first genuine one for me since we met her.

“Yes. It can be a hundred degrees outside, and the Atrium will still hold a seventy-degree setting,” she confirms. “I believe the glass is triple insulated, which helps maintain the temperature in here.”

“What’s the maximum occupancy?” Allen asks.

“The Atrium will comfortably hold three-hundred-fifty people, depending on the seating configuration,” she tells us. “And the connected patio area is large enough for seventy more, should your guests require more room.”

“It’s stunning,” I tell her. “What other sorts of functions do you typically see in here?”

“All sorts. Receptions, parties, conferences, training sessions. We even have a banquet coming up this weekend for the Realtors’ Association.”

Bingo.

We look around a bit more, and Allen pulls out his cell phone and takes pictures from multiple locations in the room.

“To help us figure out which area would work best as the dance floor,” he explains when she gives him a puzzled look.

“Oh, certainly.”

She gestures toward the double glass doors that lead out onto the patio, and we step outside and look at that area as well, with Allen taking even more pictures.

For a moment, I find myself lost in the fantasy.

“Allen, this place is perfect for us,” I say as I squeeze his hand.

“I agree, darling. I just hope it’s available the day we need it.”

We follow our guide back inside, where she shows us three other locations on the hotel’s property. Once the tour is complete, she hands us some brochures.

“I’d advise booking as soon as possible,” she tells us. “Especially for the Atrium, as its calendar is filling up rapidly.”

“How far out?”

“I can check and confirm for you, but if memory serves, it’s already been reserved every weekend through next March.”

Allen responds with, “Thanks so much for your time, we’ll be in touch,” and places his hand at the small of my back to escort me back out to the clunker.

Once we are out of earshot, he calls Mark.