Dead Certain - Mariah Stewart [9]
But Archer Lowell had gone to prison still not understanding just what exactly he’d done wrong. Amanda had seen it in his eyes. He had really believed that they’d shared a special relationship. That his infatuation with her was mutual. That they belonged together, would be together. And God help anyone who failed to understand that. Including Amanda herself.
She turned into her drive, eyes still drifting to the dark road that now lay behind her. Of course she knew she was safe, knew that no one was after her anymore, but she just couldn’t seem to help herself.
In the months since Lowell’s trial, Amanda had all but reinvented herself. The once-timid woman who had for years made her partner bid for her at auctions now spoke to women’s groups and high school health classes and the local civic association about how to recognize when you’re being stalked and what to do about it. She resumed the martial arts classes she’d taken years ago. She bought herself a gun and learned how to use it. She met monthly with a group of other stalking victims and wrote an occasional column called Warning Signs for a county newspaper. In spite of all she’d done to make herself strong and confident—all she’d done to take charge of her life—she just couldn’t seem to break that one habit. She was constantly looking over her shoulder.
She parked her car next to the well-lit walk and hurried across the cobblestones to the front steps of her narrow three-story Victorian that had once housed mill workers.
At her approach, sensors on either side of the porch activated, and beams of light flooded the entire front of the house. No shadows where someone could hide. No dark places that could conceal someone bent on mischief.
She scooped the mail from the box near the front door, then unlocked the door and stepped into an already brightly lit entrance, glancing at the alarm system that had blown out the fuses in the old house each time she’d attempted to activate it. Timers had turned on lights in the foyer, the living room and the small hall that led back to the kitchen. Her thoughts were still with the group she’d addressed earlier that evening. It was clear to her that at least one—possibly two—of the women in attendance were dealing with unwanted attention. Amanda had made note of their names and would give them a call before the end of the week to see if she could offer some more personal advice.
The flashing red light on the answering machine caught her eye, and she absently hit the play button while she sorted through the mail. The first call was a hang-up, nothing too out of the ordinary. She glanced at the caller ID window. Unknown number.
One of those telemarketing thingies that dial your number by computer, most likely. She waited for the second message to begin. More of the same. She really needed to get on the National Do Not Call Registry.
The third began to play. Not an immediate hang-up—heavy breathing this time.
Her hands began to shake.
She placed the mail in a neat stack on the table next to the machine and backed slowly to the stairs, where she sat on the bottom step and forced herself to take a long deep breath.
Of course it’s a telemarketer. Or a prankster. A kid’s idea of a stupid joke. Not funny. Definitely not funny. But it’s not what it had been before. Archer Lowell is in prison and does not have this number. He knows that if he tries to contact me in any way, additional charges will be brought against him, his sentence extended. He agreed to that. This isn’t him.
Don’t blow this out of proportion, she cautioned herself. It could be nothing more than a mistake. A misdial. Someone’s probably annoyed as hell that he—or she—has gotten the same wrong number three times in a row.
Amanda stood and started for