Page 42 of Guarding the Star

“You know you can tell me, right?” I push.

“It's nothing. She has questions about my security protocols with you. That's all.”

“Are you going to tell me anything else?”

“Now isn't the time.”

“Why not?”

“Because today was a good day. And what Alex said doesn't matter, because I've stopped pretending I'm dating you. We're actually dating now. And that's not going to make me any worse at protecting you. If anything, the opposite. If that guy gets anywhere near you, I swear I'll rip his head off,” she tells me.

“You told her? That it's real now?”

“Yes, she asked.”

“Oh man, I would've loved to see her face,” I say, rolling my eyes.

We get into bed. Her body against mine. Her hand on my waist. My back against her chest.

“Paula?”

“Yeah?”

“The Pola dragon has four legs,” I whisper, stroking the back of her hand with my thumb.

“And what does that have to do with anything?”

“The last one had three.”

“I have no idea where you're going with this.”

“Wesley likes you better than me.”

“You're an idiot,” she murmurs against the skin of my neck before she kisses it. “If you're not sleepy, I can think of better things to do than count the legs on a dragon drawn by a two-year-old,” she adds, sliding a hand under my pajama top to touch my tits.

Chapter 14

Paula

Derek Linden. Twenty-six years old. Freelance graphic designer. Lives in Ballard, Seattle. About eight blocks south of us.

Jason, my boss, sends me the profile at ten in the morning. I read it sitting in my room with the laptop on my knees and a cup of coffee going cold on the nightstand. I look at the photo: brown hair, thick-framed glasses, forgettable face. He's the type who could be sitting next to you on a bus, and you'd never notice. The type you'd never think could be a stalker.

No priors. No complaints on file. Not even a speeding ticket. My grandmother has a messier record.

Eight blocks from Iris's apartment. Ten minutes on foot.

I go through his blog again. A hundred and forty-three entries. He's been busy. The first post is from fourteen months ago. The most recent, last night. Telephoto shots: Iris getting out of the car in the club parking lot. Iris buying coffee. Iris walking with her headphones in. Going into the grocery store. Sitting on a park bench, phone in hand, with no idea someone is photographing her. It's an obsessive profile. Nobody cares about this many photos of Iris except him. He's not doing it for the handful of people who visit his blog.

To his credit, the quality is good. Clean framing, careful composition. These are photos taken by someone who knows cameras. Good equipment, patience, time.

The blog texts are something else. They reflect his mental state more clearly. The direct messages to Iris shift tone over the months. At first, pure admiration: “I watched you practice today. It's incredible how you move.” Then possession: “I think if we could talk, you'd understand everything. We're the same. We both know what it's like to be alone.” After the leak, rage: “They gave you a bodyguard. You think I'm your enemy, but your enemy is whoever separates you from the people who really love you.”

I call Detective Hamilton.

“Is this enough for police to step in?”

“You know it's not yet, Paula. There are no explicit threats of violence. The photos are in public spaces. Iris is a public figure through her work. The blog doesn't mention any intention of physical contact. You could request a restraining order, but without priors or direct threats, a judge will probably deny it. And that makes things worse.”