Hidden Identity. Carol J. Post

returned with a camera and began snapping pictures while he talked. “Any idea who did this?”

      She faced him, giving Hunter a stiff shoulder. Bobby was the officer on duty. She would direct her answers to him.

      “I have no idea.” And that was the truth. If someone was blaming her for Charlie’s death, why wait till now? There had been plenty of opportunity to threaten her earlier. After Charlie was killed, she’d spent another two months in Edmund’s house.

      Bobby snapped another photo, the flash blinding in the darkness. “Do you think this incident and someone breaking into your house earlier tonight are related?”

      “Possibly. But I don’t see the connection.”

      “I’m going to look around. The grass is too thick right here, but I’d like to see if the person left behind any footprints. I’m also going to take some samples of the paint.”

      A spark of hope lit the despair that had fallen over her. Maybe they would be able to tell where it came from and who’d purchased it.

      Her gaze shifted back to the wall. The letters were barely visible in the dim glow of a nearby streetlight—dark, ugly stains against the white siding. “Can I wash this off as soon as you’re finished?” Since it was brushed instead of spray painted, maybe it would scrub clean.

      “Sure.”

      Hunter followed Bobby around front, and Meagan breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he was done grilling her. Bobby came across as an investigator seeking the answers he needed to solve the case. Hunter’s questions held an undertone of accusation.

      Instead of leaving, he reappeared a minute later with a flashlight, ready to help Bobby with the investigation. Fine. She would go inside and leave them to their work.

      A short time later there was a soft knock on her front door. Both officers stood on her porch. “We’re finished now.” It was Bobby who spoke.

      “Thanks. I’ll get that paint washed off.”

      When she bade them good-night, Bobby took the cue and left. Hunter didn’t.

      “Do you have a scrub brush? I’ll help you clean that up.”

      “Thanks, but I’ve got it.”

      Stubbornness crept into his features. “I’m not leaving until you’re locked safely back inside. So you may as well let me help you.”

      As she stepped out the door with a bucket, some dish soap and a brush, relief nudged some of the annoyance aside. With a prowler on the loose, standing outside alone in the middle of the night wasn’t the smartest thing to do. It was almost worth the suspicious glances and prying questions to have Hunter’s protection.

      But over the next ten minutes, there weren’t any suspicious glances or prying questions. He insisted on doing the scrubbing and had her hold the hose. The paint seemed to come off well, with little, if any, tint remaining behind. The real test would be when the sun came up.

      He walked her to the front door. “Keep everything locked. And call if anything at all seems off. I’ll give you my cell number.”

      “That’s okay. If it’s an emergency, I’ll just call 911. I don’t want to bother you.”

      “It’s no bother. It’s my job.”

      “Not when you’re off duty.”

      He started to turn, then hesitated. “Don’t leave Cedar Key.” It wasn’t a request. It was a command.

      “Don’t worry. I won’t.” She had no choice. As much as she longed to run, that wasn’t an option. Her funds were too low. The bus ticket from California had taken a good chunk of what she had squirreled away. And getting set up in the small house she rented had taken most of the rest. By the time Darci had given her the part-time job in her gift shop, Meagan hadn’t been sure how she was going to eat the following week.

      No, she would have to save up much more than a measly four hundred dollars before she was ready to disappear again. Until then, she was stuck. Regardless of who might be stalking her.

      She watched Hunter step off the porch, then closed and locked the door. For some reason, the emptiness of the house seemed more pronounced than ever, mirroring the emptiness of her life.

      Instead of returning to bed, she opened the desk drawer and removed two paperbacks she had picked up at a garage sale last weekend. A third book lay underneath. It was old—a small, thick book of classic poetry—and one of the few things she had brought with her from California. It had belonged to Charlie. She had borrowed it so many times, he had joked that he would will it to her when he died.

      That day came sooner than either of them had anticipated.

      But the books weren’t what she was after. The drawer held one other cherished item—a five-by-seven photo. It was the only one she had. She’d left all the albums behind, with their pictures of family camping trips, picnics, her sister’s roller-hockey tournaments. She’d had no choice. If one had been missing, Edmund would have known the truth.

      So she had settled for a single photo, hidden years ago when a more current one was put into the frame in front of it. It was of the three of them—her mom, her sister and her. Meagan had been twelve at the time, her sister only six. Ever since their dad went to jail for the last time and their mom became both mother and father, the three of them had been inseparable. Until Edmund.

      One of his first steps in taking over her life had been talking her into quitting school. Not permanently. Just one semester. A break to focus all her attention on getting her art career off the ground. If she would move into his house, she could give up her waitressing job and do nothing but paint.

      And her clunker of a car that needed work—why dump money into it when his butler would chauffeur her anywhere she wanted to go in the Mercedes? Each choice had seemed like a no-brainer. Trading a small apartment downtown for a mansion on twenty acres. A 1992 Pontiac Sunbird for a brand-new Mercedes. Hours on her feet serving demanding customers for days spent painting in a large, sunny studio overlooking the lake.

      What she hadn’t recognized until much too late was that the real trade she had made was freedom for bondage.

      She removed the picture from the bottom of the drawer, the longing in her heart threatening to tear it in two. So many times she had picked up the phone and dialed her mother’s number, but never hit Send. Her mom and sister lived less than twenty miles from Edmund. There was always that slim chance their paths could cross. And if they knew she was alive, Edmund would see their happiness and pry the reason out of them somehow.

      So she would never do more than dial the number. And stare at a twelve-year-old photo.

      When she boarded the bus for Florida, she’d thought she had gained her freedom. She was wrong.

      She was no longer living under Edmund’s roof, but he still invaded her dreams.

      He had no more control over her friendships, but she could never let anyone get close.

      She wasn’t a victim of his mind games anymore, but she lived with the constant fear that he would one day find her.

      No, she wasn’t free.

      Freedom was nothing but an illusion.

      * * *

      Hunter eased his cruiser to a stop in front of Darci’s Collectibles and Gifts. The older red Corolla was parked at the curb, which meant Darci was there. So was the pink Schwinn bike, Meagan’s mode of transportation.

      When he entered the store, Darci stood at the counter unpacking a small box of office supplies. She looked up from her work to offer him a vibrant smile. “What are you up to?”

      “Just the usual. Hanging out, keeping the streets of Cedar Key crime-free.” Investigating a suspicious woman with “murderer” painted on the side of her house.

      He glanced around the shop.