Dead Certain - Mariah Stewart [29]
Work. Focus on the work.
Right.
Focus on the work . . .
He couldn’t believe that the reports she’d given to the police back then had been dismissed so easily. The stalker’s pattern had all the signs of classic erotomania.
According to the file, Archer Lowell, age nineteen, was a truck driver for a nearby auction house and had delivered purchases to Amanda’s shop on several occasions. Over the course of a year, he’d come under the delusion that Amanda was in love with him, though she’d testified in her sworn statement that she’d never given him any reason to believe that the kindness she’d shown to him was anything other than that. Simple kindness. She’d given water to him—and to the others on the truck—on hot days when they’d dropped off those items she or Derek had bought at auction the night before. Yes, she always greeted him—and the others—by name. No, she never treated him any differently than she treated any of the deliverymen. No, she never knowingly encouraged him.
Yet Lowell believed she was in love with him. That they were meant to be together, always, through all time. That she was the single most important thing in his life. That he was the most important thing in hers.
It was a case right out of a textbook. How could the signs have been missed by anyone who’d been paying attention?
Sean stood up and stretched, then went into the kitchen for a snack. He scanned the top shelf of his refrigerator. Half a tomato, half a six-pack of Coors, half an orange. He grabbed a beer and made a mental note to try to find time to hit the grocery store tomorrow. Well, he’d been planning on checking out the selection of roses. Maybe he’d do a quick shop while he was at it, save a few steps. He slammed the refrigerator door and went back to the living room.
He eased back into his chair, an old dark brown leather number he’d bought at a secondhand store for his first apartment, and put his feet up on the ottoman. They were the only pieces of furniture he’d brought with him when he moved to Broeder. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes, rejoicing in the silence. No television, no radio. Just—silence. He wanted it to settle around him and linger for a moment or two while he cleared his mind of everything that clamored for his attention. Just for a few minutes, he wanted to be a blank slate. That’s how he’d taught himself to picture his mind anytime he felt headed for an information overload. The skill had come in handy over the years.
He took a few deep breaths and opened his eyes, ready to go back into the Crosby file, when the phone rang.
“Mercer,” he answered.
“Did you see her? Did you meet with her?”
“Yes.”
“What did you think?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Sean said truthfully.
“Did she show you the photos?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Didn’t you recognize anyone?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about the surroundings, then? Didn’t any of it look familiar?”
“I don’t know.” His voice was taking on more of an edge.
“Of course you do.” A pause, then, “Why are you being so difficult about this?”
“I need to think this through. . . .”
“What’s to think about?”
“There’s no proof.”
“You saw the birth certificate. How much more proof do you need?”
“How do you know it wasn’t a fake?”
“Oh, come on, Sean.” His sister, Greer, burst out laughing. “Why would anyone claim to be related to us if they were not? For a share in the vast Mercer fortune? Please.”
“I don’t know what motivates people, Greer.”
A heavy sigh whispered through the phone line. “I’m going to tell Ramona that you need time to digest all this. That it’s all been a bit of a shock, coming out of the blue as it has. But that you’re going to think things over for a while.”
“All right.”
“I just want you to think about it.”
“I said I would.” His nerves were beginning to fray. He was all but out of patience.
“That’s all I’m asking, Sean. Please just keep an open mind.”
He replaced the phone gently into its cradle, then rubbed his