The Rogue
Chapter 15

Myles rolled over in bed and imagined killing Ryan Dempsey slowly, with his bare hands. The feel of the man’s windpipe, collapsing beneath a viselike grip. The sounds he’d make as he struggled for air. The pain, then the fear that would take control of his body and brain, knowing Myles had bested him. Oh, how Myles hated him for the way he’d poisoned Chloe’s mind before Myles had gotten to know her. Before he’d been able to make her see that she was his. That they belonged together.

The thought of Chloe, of those sweet, secret smiles she’d given him on all of those mornings as she’d made his breakfast with such care, calmed the rage inside of him, soothing his pounding head. Last night had been a risk, he knew, but it had been worth it. He’d been sorely tempted to press charges against Ryan, despite the plan. But as much as he’d wanted to see Ryan hauled off to a jail cell to rot for what he’d done, going on record within the RPD’s system was a risk Myles couldn’t take.

Pressing charges meant there would be a record of the event, one where Ryan’s side—and his accusations against Myles—would be recorded within a secure system, one even Jimmy wouldn’t risk hacking into for a cover-up. As much as Myles despised Detectives Hale and Maxwell, they weren’t stupid. They were already suspicious, not dismissing Ryan’s accusations outright even though Myles had made sure there was no proof he’d been watching Chloe. Now, more than ever, he needed to be smart. Patient.

Everything was falling into place. Last night had only solidified Ryan as the enemy. The police would never replace a way to connect any of this to Myles, not when he’d planted so much reasonable doubt that he practically had a garden of the stuff. He’d sent the texts to Chloe from a burner cell that he’d immediately turned off, wiped down, and tossed inside a greasy fast-food bag, then into a trash can on one of the busiest streets in downtown Remington on his way home last night. He’d wanted to tell Detective Hale that he’d sent them—why shouldn’t he be able to tell Chloe how happy he’d been to see her in the park or that she looked pretty in that blue sweater he loved so much? But she’d have taken it the wrong way, and he had to play it safe until he and Chloe could be together forever.

Getting out of bed, Myles went to his closet and opened the door. His d**k grew hard at the sight of the box on the middle shelf, nestled in with a half-dozen others just like it. He slid it into his hands, carrying it back to his bed and putting it down before flipping his laptop open. The image on the screen was hazy in the morning light, the empty bed with the sleep-rumpled covers lit by the sunshine pushing in past the pretty curtains framing the blinds. Frustration pricked in his veins at the fact that Chloe had left, that he couldn’t watch over her as she slept or be there when she woke. But Myles knew exactly where she was, even if he couldn’t see her right now. He’d be with her soon.

He took the lid off the box, excitement pulsing through him as he reached for the plastic storage bag carefully labeled with Chloe’s name. He’d curated his collection over time—a straw with her lipstick on it, tossed carelessly away and easily retrieved when no one was looking, the hair tie she’d left next to her books at the university library when she’d taken a bathroom break. Other items, like the pair of panties he now took from the plastic, had been harder to come by.

Still, he always chose things that wouldn’t be missed, or if they were, they were easily dismissed as misplaced. Myles had lifted these souvenirs so covertly in the beginning, terrified someone would notice and call him out. But his worry was all for naught. People were so immersed in themselves, glued to their phones or distracted by their kids, the dogs they were walking, or any number of other things, that it never mattered. He’d taken Chloe’s cup out of the trash at Sweetie Pies just as easily as she’d thrown it there three weeks ago and no one had batted an eye. It had been the same when he’d shown up at her building last week posing as a maintenance worker from the cable company. No one had given him a second glance, just assuming he belonged there. The uniform he’d bought online had gotten him not only in the door, but had allowed him the anonymity he’d needed to slip into the apartment manager’s office to lift her master keys. No one questioned his presence—hell, no one had even noticed him there at all—and it had given him the unfettered access to Chloe that he’d been craving.

These treasures he’d collected paled in comparison to seeing her in person—not even the video from the cameras he’d set up around her apartment could give him that rush. But despite the fact that Chloe had gone to stay with her parents, and he had far less access to her there, Myles knew his patience would be rewarded. She’d be back in a few days. Then, he could proceed.

Myles gripped the soft fabric, sliding it over his own skin with a shiver of satisfaction. These things had all touched Chloe, had been against her hair, her l!ps, her pvssy. And now, they were his, in the same way that she would be, soon enough. Her brother, those detectives, they all thought they could keep him from her, but they were wrong.

He’d keep watching, waiting for the right moment, and when he struck, when he took what was his, they’d never see him coming.

By the timeAddison got back to the precinct—ten dollars richer, much to Ryan’s surprise and dismay, but hey, she’d warned him—everyone in the unit had arrived.

“Wow, you guys are here early,” she said. Garza and Hollister must’ve been on that Narcotics bust until midnight, and, of course, Maxwell and Sinclair had been on Chloe’s case with her, not wrapping up to go home until about the same time, either.

“You’re here, we’re here,” Isabella said with a nod. “If this case is important to you, then it’s important to all of us.”

Gratitude filled Addison’s chest, making for a tight squeeze. “Thanks.”

“Maxwell has been getting us up to speed,” Capelli said, indicating the large central monitor over his desk, where they’d added last night’s incident report to the timeline. “I started looking into these texts after you sent them over last night, but I’ve got to be honest. I’m not sure we’ll get too far, there. They were sent by a burner phone, which is now turned off. I pulled the records, and the phone was activated yesterday. These are the only two texts the phone has ever sent. No outgoing or incoming calls at all.”

Damn it. “So Bishop got the phone for this specific purpose and has probably ditched it,” Addison said.

“Can we trace the purchase back to him?” Sinclair asked, having just walked into the main room from his office.

“It’s the most popular brand of burner phone on the market, so it’ll take a little time,” Capelli said, but at Sinclair’s raised brows, he added, “but I’m on it.”

“I just got off the phone with the DA’s office,” Sinclair said, nodding at Addison. “The emergency protective order was granted. They’re going to serve Bishop this morning.”

Relief whooshed through her, renewing her energy. Finally, they were getting somewhere. “Does Chloe know?”

“Tara said she was calling her after we got off the phone.” Sinclair looked at the monitor, eyeballing what little evidence they had that would tie Bishop to these texts, or to Chloe at all. “That buys us seventy-two hours. What else have we got?”

“This guy is pretty smug,” Maxwell said. “That protective order is going to piss him off.”

“I don’t think he’s expecting it,” Addison agreed. Until now, Bishop had been one step ahead of them, every movement calculated as if he were following a master plan. “The surprise might throw him off his game.”

“Good,” Sinclair said. “That makes him more likely to react emotionally, and that makes him more likely to misstep.”

Tipping his head, Garza said, “Bishop does seem to have a strategy. Are we sure he’s never done this before?”

“Nope.” Addison thought of the perfectly tidy background she’d turned up online, her stomach icing over with dread. “We’re just sure he’s never been caught.”

“Let’s see if we can change that.” Sinclair sent a glance over the team, the steel in his voice telling Addison, in no uncertain terms, that he wasn’t going to stop until they’d uncovered what they needed to put Bishop behind bars. “If we can’t replace anything in the here-and-now, let’s work backward. Triple-check every last part of his past that we can replace. Work history, family, education—all of it, back to high school. And reach out to the Jacksonville Police Department to dig deeper there, along with anywhere else he’s ever lived. Just because he doesn’t have a record doesn’t mean complaints weren’t filed and dismissed.”

“Hang on a second,” Maxwell said. “If he’s that smart, then why give us evidence that he’s got eyes on Chloe by way of those texts?”

Isabella sat back in her chair and asked, “Any chance he was bluffing about being able to see her? I mean, yeah, he got the color of her sweater right, but maybe that was a lucky guess?”

“No.” Addison shook her head. No way. “He was there. He had to have been watching her. But it does seem weird that he’d give us concrete evidence of harassment.”

“The texts are going to be damn near impossible to tie back to him,” Garza said. “Maybe he’s just that arrogant. Or he could be escalating.”

They’d seen enough stalkers to know that at a certain point, they always escalated, and when they did, reason became less of a determining factor in their behavior. “Maybe,” Addison said. “But he was really flaunting it. Almost like he was baiting her.”

Isabella’s chin lifted. “Or Ryan. I mean, if Bishop was watching Chloe last night, then he knew Ryan was there, too, and Ryan did say Bishop taunted him.”

Oh, that sick bastard. “He did it to make it look like Ryan has it out for him. It creates reasonable doubt.” No wonder Bishop hadn’t really fought back. He wanted the whole thing to look like wrongful accusation, making himself the victim, and Ryan had played right into it.

“Hey, wait a second,” Hollister said, his auburn brows tucked hard in thought. “Chloe lives on the fourth floor, right?”

Addison nodded. “Yeah. She’s in apartment 16A. Why?”

“Well, if Bishop was on the street below at the time he sent the texts, he wouldn’t have been able to see her unless she was right in her window, which I’m guessing she wasn’t. And he damn sure wouldn’t have been able to see Dempsey. Not from that vantage point.”

A chill ran across the back of Addison’s neck, raising the hair there in its wake. Hollister was right. Chloe never would’ve been so careless as to linger in her window, and the witnesses had told both Dade and the Intelligence team that they’d seen Bishop on the street, looking at his phone when Ryan came rampaging out of the building.

Which meant…“Oh, my God,” Addison breathed, her throat constricting. “He’s got eyes inside her apartment.”

“We’re going to need to get in there to do a full sweep for surveillance equipment,” Sinclair said, already moving. “Hale, get Chloe on the phone and ask for her permission to go in for a search. Capelli, once we get the green light, I’m going to need a thorough sweep for cameras, bugs, mics—all of it. Garza, you’re on the assist. Maxwell, call the apartment manager and have her meet us in the lobby. I want records of every maintenance person going in and out of the entire building for the last month. Hollister, you and Isabella start going through the security footage to see if we can get eyes on Bishop anywhere near Chloe’s apartment. Let’s see if we can nail this son of a bitch.”

Everyone in the office burst into motion, turning toward keyboards or desk phones. Addison’s pulse stuttered at the thought of such a gross invasion of privacy, at how deeply Bishop might have dug in without them knowing it. If he’d managed to sneak into Chloe’s apartment to set up some kind of hidden cameras, he’d already escalated past the point of intimidation. He could hurt her. Curl his fingers around her wrists in an iron grip, hard enough to leave a bruise. Or maybe he’d hold a dirty hand over her mouth and, instead of threatening to hurt her, he’d promise to kill her mother while she watched, tell her it would be her fault because she was too small, too weak to save her…

Addison’s heart pounded, her breath growing ragged in her ears. She needed to stop, to replace an anchor and center herself. But she felt that hand clamped over her face, pressing harder and harder, and oh, God, she needed—

I guess we’re crazy together, because I feel the same way about you.

Ryan’s voice whispered in her mind, calm and sure, and Addison grabbed onto it like a lifeline. Slowly, the grip of her memories faded, and she came back to the Intelligence office, breath by breath.

They could catch Myles. They could keep Chloe safe. But first thing’s first. They needed proof.

Which meant they needed to get into Chloe’s apartment, fast.

“Hey, Chloe. It’s Addison,” she said when the younger woman picked up. They’d migrated to a first-name basis last night, which Chloe seemed to replace comfort in and Addison didn’t mind one bit.

“Oh, my God. Addison! Did you hear the news? We got the emergency protective order.” The excitement in Chloe’s voice was light and sweet, like bubbles in champagne.

“I did, and that’s great. We’re working fast to gather as much evidence as we can to get the preliminary protective order approved, too.” She took a deep breath. “Actually, we were wondering if we could have access to your apartment.”

“My apartment?” Chloe asked. “Why would you need to get in there? Myles has never been inside.”

Addison tread with care. This new potential development didn’t put Chloe in any added danger, and until she knew for sure what they were dealing with, she needed to keep her calm. “We’re trying to figure out how he knew about your sweater last night. Just exploring a couple of angles.”

“Oh,” Chloe said. “Well, I’m at my parents’ house. Ryan and I set up a schedule last night of places I can stay so I won’t have to be alone. Would you need me to come let you in?”

“Nope. I don’t want to disrupt your day.” Or your sanity, Addison added silently. “As long as you give us permission, we can get the apartment manager to let us in with the master key. And I promise, we’ll do our very best not to disturb anything.”

“Okay. Sure. If you think it’ll help.”

“I do,” Addison said. “Thank you.”

She hung up, rubbing the bridge of her nose with both index fingers. If they found surveillance equipment inside that apartment, if Bishop had been watching her every move from the shadows and knew every place she might run and hide, it was going to take all of Addison’s detective skills to keep Chloe calm.

Keeping her safe? That might just take an act of God.