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didn’t think it absolutely necessary.
    Her cell rang, interrupting her silent reverie, and she picked it up without thinking. “Serena Macafee.”
    “Hello, darling.”
    Her stomach clenched sickly at the familiar, distorted voice and she started to hang up, but knew the gesture was useless. He would just call back and leave messages—twisted and explicit—until she finally listened to him. “What do you want?” She kept her voice steady, though her stomach churned.
    “Just to talk. I’ve missed you—you’ve been away for days.”
    Chills skittered down her spine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    He laughed, the sound even more disturbing for its distortion. “Let’s not play games, sweetheart. You’re not at home and haven’t been for nearly a week. Where are you?”
    “That’s none of your business.”
    The disembodied voice turned deadly serious. “Everything about you is mybusiness. When are you going to figure that out?”
    Hands clenched into fists, Serena fought for control—fought to keep the sick panic out of her voice. “Look, hasn’t this gone on long enough? Aren’t you bored yet?”
    “You could never bore me. Talking to you is so often the highlight of my day.”
    “Well, it’s not the highlight of mine. You need to stop or I’ll call the police.”
    “No, you won’t.” His voice was confident, self-assured. “You hate the cops, hate the whole system. You wouldn’t call them if you were dying in the street.”
    Serena froze, shocked at just how well this man knew her. She’d assumed, at first, that the calls were just a joke. A couple of kids crank calling for kicks. But the calls had gone on for weeks now, each one a little more personal, a little more disturbing than the last. He’d even managed to get her cell phone number after she’d changed it. Twice.
    “Ahhh, that got your attention, didn’t it? You think I don’t know you? You think I don’t know everything about you? Like right now you’re in the middle of that godforsaken bayou taking pictures of some famous artist. Aren’t you?
    “What’s the matter?” he asked after a minute, as if her silence disturbed him. “Am I not supposed to know what you’re up to?” His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “Am I not supposed to know about the great Kevin Riley? They say women are crazy about him. Is that true? Are you crazy about him? Do you want him to fuck you?”
    The voice turned ugly. “Or has he already?”
    She didn’t answer him,
couldn’t
answer him as shock spun through her.
    “Tell me the truth, damn it! Has he touched you? You’ve been way out there in the middle of the swamps with him for days. Has he kissed you? Sucked your gorgeous little nipples? Licked his way down that hot little body of yours until—”
    She hit the disconnect button moments before the phone fell from her suddenly numb fingers. She couldn’t listen to one more word—even if it meant the calls would escalate, get worse.
    Because her shaking legs would no longer support her, Serena sank slowly onto her bed. What had she gotten herself into? And Dear God, how was she going to get herself out of it?
    Had she somehow managed to pick up a stalker? Someone who watched her every move? She shuddered violently, fighting against the almost overwhelming need toclose the blinds and curl into a ball. Fighting the urge to take a shower and scrub until she felt clean.
    Sandra’s death had taught her to be wary, had convinced her that the world could be a very sick place. She really should call the police, tell them about the phone calls. About the caller’s bizarre knowledge of her life and personality.
    But he was right. She hated the Baton Rouge police, didn’t trust them at all. Refused to trust them after the debacle surrounding her sister’s death. Besides, she didn’t have any proof. Believing at first the calls were nothing more than some bored kids looking for excitement, she’d erased all the