K-9 Hideout Read online

  Police still weren’t sure if the truck backing up had been a targeted attack or just a freak accident. Still, they’d promised to investigate under the assumption that her stalker could have been involved. They might have been uncertain, but she wasn’t. Her stalker was here, he’d made contact, and now he was back to threatening anyone who dared to enter her life.

  She hadn’t heard any updates. Despite the short amount of time she’d known Tate, she knew if they’d found anything, he would have told her.

  She should have run the moment she’d spotted the new note on her doorstep. It didn’t matter that her stalker kept finding her. She’d let herself become too invested in her life here, too invested in the life she could have. And she’d let herself forget how high the stakes were.

  Sabrina glanced around the little cabin. It was barely eight hundred square feet, but it was cozy and the rent shockingly cheap.

  Here, for the first time since she’d left New York City and her growing career in fashion design, she was doing something she loved again. No more waitressing jobs in dingy diners. No more constantly scanning the customers, searching for a face that was vaguely familiar, that might belong to a man who wouldn’t leave her alone. No more endless tension between her shoulder blades, always on high alert for harassment or an attack from someone who knew she didn’t want to attract attention, who knew she probably wouldn’t risk going to the police.

  In Desparre, she’d dared to start designing jewelry. It was what she’d always wanted to do, but back in the city, general accessories, like belts, scarves and sunglasses, were as close as she’d come. Here, she’d used an e-commerce site, made up a name with no connection to her and given it a shot. The first sale had been thrilling. As it continued to grow, she’d started to believe this could be her future.

  Would she be able to do it somewhere else so easily? With Alaska’s history of gold rushes, big and small, getting the raw materials had been easier than she’d expected. The cabin’s tiny second bedroom had been perfect to set up a small workspace. And the view out her back windows was endlessly inspiring.

  The sharp set of raps on her door made Sabrina jump. Her hand darted immediately to the alert button around her neck, but she didn’t press it. Would her stalker really knock?

  He’d knocked at Dylan’s house.

  Or at least that’s what police assumed, that Dylan had opened the door to his killer, because there’d been no sign of forced entry.

  The thought refused to go away as she moved slowly toward the door, heart thumping way too fast. But Dylan hadn’t had any reason to suspect the person at his door was a threat. She’d mentioned the stalker, but she hadn’t gone into details. She hadn’t told him to be careful. Even knowing there’d been no reason for her to think he’d be in danger, the same guilt rushed forward, stinging her eyes with old tears.

  Blinking them clear, she glanced around for a weapon. Making a quick detour into the kitchen, she grabbed the cast-iron pan the owner had left behind. She hefted it to shoulder height as she approached the door. It was solid and thick, tough to open even when it wasn’t locked tight with a dead bolt, and especially now when her hands still shook.

  Leaning in, she peered through the peephole.

  It was a woman. A blonde with perfectly smoothed hair and a lot of makeup by Desparre standards, but not far from what Sabrina was used to in New York City at a club or at the design studio.

  Sabrina had no idea who she was, but she lowered the pan as she leaned back. It seemed unlikely that her stalker was a woman, and equally unlikely he’d be able to convince one to help him. As the heavy pan came down, it banged the door, and she cringed.

  “Hello?” the woman called when Sabrina didn’t open the door.

  She frowned, wondering what the woman wanted. Not that it really mattered. She wasn’t about to open up for anyone right now.

  When another minute went by and Sabrina continued to ignore the raps at the door, the woman called out, “My name is Ariel Clemson. I’m a reporter for the Desparre Daily.”

  There was a long pause, as if she thought that would be enticement enough, then she added, “I saw what happened at the park earlier, and I’m hoping to do a story about it.” Another pause, then a hint of frustration underneath her hopeful pitch. “You know, Local Woman Bravely Rescues Police K-9?”

  Sabrina’s heart gave a small kick of anxiety. The idea of any exposure, even in the small-town newspaper, was a bad idea. There was no telling how it might get shared or who might ultimately see it. Yes, her stalker had found her, but her family hadn’t. With her stalker nearby, she didn’t want them to have any idea where she was.

  “If you change your mind, give me a call,” Ariel said through the door, and then a business card slid underneath.

  Sabrina stayed quiet, still pretending not to be home, even though the reporter clearly knew she was, until the car backed out of her driveway.

  Then she turned back into the cabin that had started to feel like a real home. She took one last look at the closed shades obscuring the view she loved, and headed into her bedroom to start packing.

  Chapter Six

  Was there anywhere on earth that her stalker couldn’t track her?

  Sabrina had been so careful when she’d come here, leaving her last hideout in Washington in the middle of the night when there’d been almost no one on the roads. She’d kept a close eye on her rearview mirror for hours, not stopping until she was well into Canada. There was no way he’d been behind her. Was there?

  If he hadn’t physically followed her, how had he found her here? She’d stopped all contact with friends and family, not even daring to send them letters from the road in case he was watching their mailboxes, waiting to intercept them. She’d stopped shopping at any of the places she used to love, even online. She’d quit her favorite exercise program that let her join in virtual sessions. She’d stopped working in fashion design, only recently making the jump to jewelry—still design, but a different field. She’d stopped using her social-media accounts entirely.

  When the PI had first suggested she leave town, when she’d detailed the extent of the changes she wanted Sabrina to make to her life, giving up hobbies and activities that could be a way to locate her, it had all sounded excessive. It had all seemed unnecessary. Now she wondered if she’d missed something, some small piece of her former life that had given her stalker a way to locate her.

  She had no idea what it was. But if he’d found her all the way in no-stoplights-in-downtown, snow-you-in-until-spring Desparre, was there anywhere she’d be safe?

  Hefting a bag full of her jewelry supplies, Sabrina peered through the peephole at her truck, ready in the drive. Last night, after she’d made the decision to leave, she’d packed everything and then stared, frustrated and tense, out into the darkness. She’d been afraid to go outside. Afraid her stalker was waiting in the woods, ready to ambush her.

  This was worse than any of the other tiny towns she’d stopped in over the past two years. All the other times she’d run, she’d done it because she’d gotten jumpy, started seeing every shadow as a possible threat. But she’d never received a note until Desparre.

  She’d gotten too comfortable here. She’d actually started to believe she could have some semblance of a life.

  Now she was back to where she’d been two years ago. Scared and alone.

  It didn’t matter. All that mattered was her life, and the lives of the people she cared about. It was what the PI had drilled into her when she’d told Sabrina all the things she’d have to give up if she wanted to stay safe. Back then, even knowing how real the threat was, she’d burst into tears more than once in the days leading up to her planned disappearance, hoping the police would pull out a miracle and catch him.

  After all this time, she thought she’d become more hardened. But at least now that she’d made the decision to leave, she knew she
could do it.

  She could go back to jumping from one town to the next, one state to the next. She could go back to the tedious waitressing jobs, the sleazy hotels. She could go back to being totally alone.

  Pushing an image of Tate from her mind, Sabrina willed away the fear and the frustration as she yanked open the door and scanned the area. Then she hurried to her truck, pepper spray clutched in her free hand. She dropped the bag inside, scanned the woods and hurried back to the cabin.

  She hadn’t run with so many belongings since she’d first slipped out of New York, in the middle of the night. Back then, she’d done it with the help of the investigator, who’d made sure she wasn’t followed.

  In the time since then, she’d purged more and more of the things she’d once thought she couldn’t live without. Small pieces of her past that had started to feel like too much baggage or that she could get a little money for in a pawnshop.

  Was it even worth bringing her jewelry supplies? Probably not, since she doubted she’d be able to continue finding the things she needed to keep up her small online business. But maybe she could sell the last of it along the way. The past few years had shown her how expensive it could get to stay invisible.

  Any reputable place wanted multiple forms of ID and a credit check to rent to you. Sabrina had a fake ID and the PI had made a fake credit history to go with it. But the woman had warned her that it was always safer not to rely on it. If someone dug deep enough, they’d figure out it wasn’t real. Then she’d be in legal trouble herself.

  Using her real ID or her real name meant someone could run a real credit check on her. She had no idea what resources her stalker had, but if he’d managed to get a hold of her social security number, he could track her from a simple credit check. She wasn’t willing to take that risk, either.

  So, she’d stuck to cheap motels that didn’t care who she was. She’d stuck to sleazy employers who were happy to pay her cash under the table as long as they could pay her below minimum wage.

  Only in Desparre had she dared to rent. She’d stopped in the grocery store downtown, and Talise had immediately noticed a scared, exhausted outsider and tried to help. She’d introduced her to the only other person buying groceries at 8 p.m., an elderly man who was going to stay with his daughter in southern Alaska, probably indefinitely. He wasn’t ready to give up his cabin, but he was willing to rent it cheaply. If she was willing to pay for each new month several weeks in advance, he wasn’t interested in anything more than her word.

  She’d felt guilty for taking him up on it, even knowing she’d never leave him in the lurch. Now she wrote his name on an envelope and stuffed enough for next month’s rent in it, hoping he wasn’t relying on the income. Eventually, Tate would figure out she’d gone, and word would get to Talise, who’d pass it on to the owner.

  Lifting onto her shoulder her second and final bag, one filled with her clothes and a framed picture of her mom and brother, Sabrina glanced around the cabin one last time. Then she set the emergency button the police had given her on the table in the front hall. There was a lot she’d miss about Desparre, but she couldn’t stay.

  It was one thing to risk her own life to put an end to her running, to regain an existence beyond simple survival. She wouldn’t risk Tate’s.

  She liked him, probably too much for the short time she’d known him. Yes, he was an armed police officer, but her stalker had already proven how dangerous he could be. No one had seen him slipping into Talise’s truck on the street, shifting it partway to Reverse and then disappearing into the woods. What if, next time, he stood in those woods and used the gun he’d taken into Dylan’s home? What if he aimed it at Tate and the officer never saw the threat coming?

  She refused to be responsible for anyone else’s death.

  It was time to go.

  * * *

  TATE JERKED UPRIGHT in bed, slick with sweat, his heart pounding as though he was still trapped in his nightmare.

  It had plagued him all night, waking him on and off and making him sleep later than usual. As he’d thrashed around in bed, he’d kept Sitka up, too. Periodically, she’d stood up in her dog bed in the corner and whined.

  He’d reassure her, try to shake off the memories, then feel himself being sucked right back into the same nightmare of that fateful morning run five and a half years ago. He’d been jogging, pushing his body hard as his mind went over and over the payoff he’d witnessed, as he stressed over the upcoming arrests. Or at least those he’d assumed would be arrested. Not just a crime lord, but also three fellow cops. Officers he’d respected, officers he’d worked with, officers who’d once come to his aid.

  Then the past and present had blended. In his dream, Sabrina had jogged up next to him, distracted him with her shy smile and the far-off look in her eyes. When the gunfire had started, he’d raced off the path and into the woods, trying to make himself a difficult target, just as he’d done back then. Knowing he was probably going to die, the same certainty he’d felt back in Boston. But in his nightmare, he’d been pulling a confused and terrified Sabrina with him, and instead of a group of cops trying to corner them, her stalker had stepped out of the woods in front of them.

  He’d been huge, just a dark shadow among the trees, except for a wide, evil smile. Tate had lunged for Sabrina, trying to flatten her to the ground, but before he could reach her, he’d woken.

  Over and over throughout the night, the same nightmare had plagued him.

  Was it a premonition? The subconscious knowledge that he couldn’t fully protect her?

  Stalkers and abusers were some of the hardest threats to eliminate. The law got murky, precedent not always favoring the victims, and that personality type—a man so obsessed with controlling a woman that he couldn’t let go—was often willing to give up his whole life just to hurt her.

  The chance that it was just driver error that had sent the vehicle racing down the street yesterday was strong. There’d been no prints besides Talise’s in the car, no cameras on the street to confirm if someone else had gotten inside. So even if Tate could figure out who the stalker was, even if he had been responsible, Tate couldn’t prove the guy had done anything with the truck.

  Whether or not he’d set the vehicle in motion, Sabrina’s stalker was here. He was watching her. Was Tate risking Sabrina’s life even more by convincing her to stay?

  The worry gnawed at him as he kicked off his covers, then stepped out of his shorts and into the shower. The heat and steam relaxed him in a way that nothing else except a good hard run could do. Five minutes later, dressed in civilian clothes since it was his day off, Tate opened the back door for Sitka.

  His small house was located on the outskirts of downtown. He’d dared to buy the home, to set down roots here, because the family friend who’d created his fake name and backstory worked for Witness Protection. He hadn’t created Tate’s pseudonym officially. But if anyone knew how to do it right, it was a man who’d spent two decades doing it professionally.

  In the years since Tate had returned to Alaska, he’d struggled with bouts of frustration and depression, especially from not being able to see his family. He could only contact them periodically, through a complicated system that would protect his safety and theirs. He’d left behind all the friends he’d made in Boston, with no notice to anyone that he was leaving. And he’d had to start over in the Desparre PD, going through the police academy a second time, pretending to be a true rookie.

  But he’d taken for granted that he was safe here in Desparre.

  Sure, he’d become even more cautious, but he’d been a police officer for two years in Boston, patrolling the streets during the late-night shift. Boston’s crime rate was a lot higher than Desparre’s. So being safety-conscious was already a way of life. His ability to be attuned to danger was probably what had saved his life five years ago.

  He’d had his moments of paranoia an
d fear since then, but nothing like the constant terror chasing Sabrina. She was convinced yesterday’s attack had been meant for Sitka, a warning that her stalker could get to her anytime, that she shouldn’t let anyone close to her.

  Tate’s hands fisted at how well her stalker had succeeded. He’d forced Sabrina to leave everyone she loved behind, to stay all alone for two long years. From the way she’d reacted when people had tried to talk to her in the park, he could see that she hadn’t let anyone truly get close to her since leaving.

  It was a common tactic of scum like domestic abusers, so why not stalkers, too? Make the target of their obsession feel vulnerable and completely alone. Make them feel that if they dared to try and get help, things would only get worse. And not just for the target but for anyone she reached out to for help or companionship.

  Sabrina was going to run again.

  It hit him with a certainty that stole the breath from his lungs. “Sitka,” he wheezed.

  His dog came running across the yard, nudging him with her nose like she knew something was wrong.

  “Come on,” he said, hurrying back through the house and out the front door to his truck.

  She raced beside him, her head pivoted slightly toward him like she was worried. She knew this wasn’t a typical work mission.

  “We need to stop Sabrina from running,” he told her as he opened the door for her and she hopped into the truck, then leaped over to the passenger side.

  His heart thundered as he silently berated himself for not recognizing what his subconscious had been trying to tell him all night. Was he already too late?

  He took the roads fast, jaw clenched and his breathing too rapid, like he was headed to a distress call knowing before he arrived that all he’d be able to do was clean up the mess. If she’d already left, he had no idea how to even begin to search for her.