G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 02 - Dead Housewives of New Orleans by G.T. Herren Page B
Authors: G.T. Herren
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give me his cell phone number and email address.
I made a note of both, deciding to deal with him later. I quickly disposed of important emails— there weren’t many— and checked through the rest— there wasn’t anything that couldn’t wait until I was back in the office on Monday morning. I got up and poured myself a cup of coffee. It had started pouring rain again while I was in the shower, and it was almost dark as night outside my kitchen windows. I was walking back to the computer when it pinged to let me know I had a new email. I sat down, glancing out at the gray downpour— the path alongside the house to the front gate was already under an inch or so of water— and turned my attention to the computer. I inhaled sharply.
There was an email with the subject line
I know who you are
. The return email address was all numbers.
I clicked it open.
I know who you are, I know where you’re from, I know everything there is to know about you.
I exhaled, trying to stay calm and not panic.
This wasn’t the first time I’d gotten an email like this, and it apparently wasn’t going to be the last. I’d gotten the first one the weekend Marigny Mercereau was murdered. I’d deleted that one, dismissing it as nonsense or the modern-day version of a prank phone call. I knew the numbers meant the emails were being sent from a cell phone’s mail program, and it was the same set of numbers every time. When I got the second one I’d started to delete it like I had the first— but stopped myself. Instead, I created a mail folder I named ‘weird emails’, and started saving them instead of deleting them. They were always a variation of the same thing—
I know who you really are, I know where you’re from—
so on and so forth.
When I was a crime reporter, I saw far too many cases of women being harassed and stalked to just dismiss these emails outright. Too many women had lived to regret their initial dismissal of the behavior as not serious enough to involve the police. Almost every time I’d heard the story from a victim, I’d told myself if it ever happened to me I wasn’t waiting to be threatened or physically assaulted. I was going straight to the police.
I reminded myself of that as I stared at the strange words on my computer screen.
This was the fourth time I’d gotten one of these. After the third, I’d decided that if I got another I was going to have to do something about it. As I sat there staring at it, tapping my fingers on my desk, I swore at myself for being stupid.
You don’t know this isn’t some crazy, you don’t know that it’s not just some dumb kid playing a prank,
I scolded myself.
You’re probably made a lot of enemies you aren’t even aware of when you worked for the paper. You’re lucky this hasn’t already become something serious. Do you really want to take the chance? If it is just some dumb kid— well, they need to learn this kind of shit isn’t funny. A visit from the cops might just be what the little punks need.
I got my cell phone out of my purse, and hesitated.
Call the police, or call Chanse?
Two of my closest friends were police detectives, and my best friend was an honest to God private detective. I wouldn’t have to tell any of them the truth about my past— all I had to do was show them the emails and ask them to trace the number.
I bit my lower lip.
What are the odds it’s all just a coincidence and ISN’T your past catching up with you after all these years?
And if it is, why now? It’s been almost sixteen years!
It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that it was just a coincidence.
Was I willing to take that chance?
But if you have Venus check into it, you’d have to tell her not to tell Blaine, who’s Ryan’s younger brother, after all, and then she’d want to know why you don’t want him to know. And if you tell her it’s because you don’t want him telling Ryan… then she’s going to want to know more before she does
I made a note of both, deciding to deal with him later. I quickly disposed of important emails— there weren’t many— and checked through the rest— there wasn’t anything that couldn’t wait until I was back in the office on Monday morning. I got up and poured myself a cup of coffee. It had started pouring rain again while I was in the shower, and it was almost dark as night outside my kitchen windows. I was walking back to the computer when it pinged to let me know I had a new email. I sat down, glancing out at the gray downpour— the path alongside the house to the front gate was already under an inch or so of water— and turned my attention to the computer. I inhaled sharply.
There was an email with the subject line
I know who you are
. The return email address was all numbers.
I clicked it open.
I know who you are, I know where you’re from, I know everything there is to know about you.
I exhaled, trying to stay calm and not panic.
This wasn’t the first time I’d gotten an email like this, and it apparently wasn’t going to be the last. I’d gotten the first one the weekend Marigny Mercereau was murdered. I’d deleted that one, dismissing it as nonsense or the modern-day version of a prank phone call. I knew the numbers meant the emails were being sent from a cell phone’s mail program, and it was the same set of numbers every time. When I got the second one I’d started to delete it like I had the first— but stopped myself. Instead, I created a mail folder I named ‘weird emails’, and started saving them instead of deleting them. They were always a variation of the same thing—
I know who you really are, I know where you’re from—
so on and so forth.
When I was a crime reporter, I saw far too many cases of women being harassed and stalked to just dismiss these emails outright. Too many women had lived to regret their initial dismissal of the behavior as not serious enough to involve the police. Almost every time I’d heard the story from a victim, I’d told myself if it ever happened to me I wasn’t waiting to be threatened or physically assaulted. I was going straight to the police.
I reminded myself of that as I stared at the strange words on my computer screen.
This was the fourth time I’d gotten one of these. After the third, I’d decided that if I got another I was going to have to do something about it. As I sat there staring at it, tapping my fingers on my desk, I swore at myself for being stupid.
You don’t know this isn’t some crazy, you don’t know that it’s not just some dumb kid playing a prank,
I scolded myself.
You’re probably made a lot of enemies you aren’t even aware of when you worked for the paper. You’re lucky this hasn’t already become something serious. Do you really want to take the chance? If it is just some dumb kid— well, they need to learn this kind of shit isn’t funny. A visit from the cops might just be what the little punks need.
I got my cell phone out of my purse, and hesitated.
Call the police, or call Chanse?
Two of my closest friends were police detectives, and my best friend was an honest to God private detective. I wouldn’t have to tell any of them the truth about my past— all I had to do was show them the emails and ask them to trace the number.
I bit my lower lip.
What are the odds it’s all just a coincidence and ISN’T your past catching up with you after all these years?
And if it is, why now? It’s been almost sixteen years!
It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that it was just a coincidence.
Was I willing to take that chance?
But if you have Venus check into it, you’d have to tell her not to tell Blaine, who’s Ryan’s younger brother, after all, and then she’d want to know why you don’t want him to know. And if you tell her it’s because you don’t want him telling Ryan… then she’s going to want to know more before she does