“The gun’s for him, for that fucking whore who made you so cheap.” Becca’s pitch was high and sharp, but her hands didn’t tremble. “You’re my friend. Mine. He’s got no right to you.”

Kit suddenly remembered how someone had wrecked Schoolboy Choir’s dressing room a couple of years ago when they’d done a set as part of a charity concert. The guys had figured it was a drunk fellow musician, but Becca had been backstage at that concert, acting as makeup artist for a soloist.

 Kit put that incident together with Cody’s slashed tires the night of the wrap party, the dog feces that had been thrown at the house of a female director with whom Kit had begun a friendship before the director moved to work on a project in Europe, as well as the way Becca was always busy when Kit invited her to join Kit, Molly, and Thea for coffee or lunch, and knew the police, everyone, they’d been wrong.

The stalking had nothing to do with sex or physical attraction. It had to do with a pathological kind of friendship on Becca’s part. If Kit was right, Becca hadn’t been helping a male partner—this was too personal. That meant the sexual part of the stalking had been window dressing meant to hide Becca’s gender and true aim: to be Kit’s one and only friend.

“Where did you get the semen to smear on my bedspread?” It had been done literally a minute before Kit walked into the house, on dark blue sheets that would’ve made the stain obvious, even if the stalker hadn’t left a card next to it.

Becca had been in the town house the day before, seen the sheets, could’ve easily broken the lock on the window through which the stalker was found to have entered. As for the timing, Becca had been texting with Kit as Kit walked home from the party she’d been at that night—a party which Becca had left earlier on some excuse Kit couldn’t now remember. Kit had told her she’d be home in five minutes if Becca wanted to drop by.

Now the smaller woman shrugged. “Saved the condom from a wannabe actor I fucked who has a thing for you.” A small smile. “He did me because he thought it would get him close to you. I figured he’d make a good fall guy if the DNA was ever traced—the dipshit even has a poster of you on his wall. Smoking gun, right?”

That was when Kit realized just how deep this went, how much planning had been involved. “You must really care about me,” she said, playing to Becca’s pathology though terror threatened to freeze her to the spot. “Not many people care in this industry.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Becca dashed away a tear. “I’m the one who’s always looked after you. I made you beautiful on Primrose Avenue, then made you perfect for Last Flight. You would’ve never gotten that Oscar nod without me, but did I ever crow? No. I was happy for my friend. I wanted the best for you.”

“I know. I understand.” In truth, Kit was the one who’d recommended Becca to the Last Flight crew, and from that credit had flowed other work offers for the makeup artist.

Becca smiled shakily. “Good. I don’t want to lose our friendship over this. Once I get rid of Noah, we can go back to how it was.”

She waved the gun as Kit’s entire soul screamed. “Let’s go sit in the living room and wait for him. We’ll drive out and bury the body in the desert and you can say he got drugged to the eyeballs and ran off with a groupie.” A sudden frown. “Don’t scream or I’ll shoot you. Your bodyguards are too far away anyway.”

Kit decided she would scream, but she’d wait until Noah was back. She would not let Becca hurt the man she loved more than anything.

Chapter 38

Noah was talking to the older guy from whom he’d bought the mint-condition blond Gibson when his eye caught on the magazines on the man’s coffee table. “You into makeup as well as guitars?”

The bearded and tattooed biker and musician stroked his white beard. “Yeah, right. Those are my granddaughter’s—girl wants to work in the movies creating aliens or something.” He threw up his hands. “I tell her she should do beautiful women, but she just says Grandpa, then starts talking about brow ridges and facial prosthetics and…”

The other man was still talking, but Noah had tuned him out. Something about the topmost magazine was bugging him. Picking it up, he scanned the cover. Nothing he was interested in; it looked like a small trade magazine for those in the makeup industry. It didn’t even feature anyone he knew, so why was he—

The letters. The fucking letters.

The magazine used a distinctive font on the cover, the same as in several of the letters used in the card the stalker had attached to the box of chocolates left in the backseat of Noah’s Mustang.

Becca

He shook his head to dislodge the thought. Just because he didn’t get along with Kit’s friend was no reason to suspect her—and anyway, the stalker was a man. Still, it might point them in the right direction.

“…so I said, sure honey, whatever you want.”

Tuning back into the other man’s monologue, Noah grinned and nodded. “Women, huh?”

“Can’t live without ’em.” Winking, the bearded male held out a hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Same.”

Getting into his car for the drive back home, Noah decided to call Kit, tell her his idea about her stalker’s likely connection to Becca’s side of the industry. Maybe it was a guy who’d worked on Kit at some point. When she didn’t answer her home line or the cell, he figured she must be out in the garden. Speaking of which, he’d intended to pick her up a plant… but he had a sudden compulsion to get home, that damn magazine nagging at him.

He’d surprise her with the plant later, he decided and drove on, going as fast as he dared.

Arriving at the gates, he rolled through after activating them using the remote Kit had given him. He saw Butch keeping an eye on things, stopped to say hello. “Any problems?”

“Nah. Kit’s got her colorful friend with her though, so you might want to make yourself scarce. I don’t think that one likes you too much.”

“Becca?” Noah’s muscles tensed. “How long’s she been here?”

“Couple of hours.” Butch frowned. “What’s wrong? Did I screw up?”

“We might all have screwed up.” Noah thrust a hand through his hair. “Kit wasn’t answering her phone when I called a half hour ago.” The garden theory still applied; they could be out there talking, but Noah didn’t want to take the chance.

Getting out of the car, he said, “Let’s go up quietly. If they’re in the garden chatting, no harm, no foul and Becca never has to know I suspected her.”

Butch nodded. “I’ll radio Casey, tell him to keep an eye on the gate while we go in.”

It felt as if it took them forever to reach the house. Splitting up, they went around on either side, careful to avoid the windows, though Noah made sure to take a quick glimpse inside as he crouched by each. He wanted to think he was being an idiot, but his heart was thumping, adrenaline flowing, and then he looked through the living room window and rage roared through his blood.

Kit was sitting stiffly in a chair while Becca sat across from her in an identical chair. Nothing wrong with that except for the fear on Kit’s face. Becca had to have a weapon.

Continuing around the house, he met Butch on the patio, told him what he’d seen. “It has to be a gun or Kit would’ve tried to overpower her.” Kit was taller, had more muscle.

Face grim, Butch said, “Our one advantage is that we know the situation and there are two of us, three if I pull Casey in—or we can alert the cops, have them bring in an extraction team.”

“No, we do it quickly. She’s clearly unstable, might decide to shoot Kit while we set things up.” He would not leave Kit in danger and afraid. “Wait,” he said, a sudden thought blazing in his head. “Why is she still here?” If Becca’s intent had been to hurt Kit, she could’ve done that as soon as she arrived, then taken off.