His mouth slides into a bleak half-smile. “Before I waste a ton of resources, assure me that this has nothing to do with your club. You piss someone off? Another club got a beef with you? Maybe the Vipers decided to come after your old lady? Black Venom? South of Satan? Someone else?”
I should’ve seen this coming. Jackson’s done his MC homework. Goody for him.
“You said you looked at those fucking letters,” I answer through clenched teeth. “This has nothing to do with me or my club.”
“Don’t get twisted. I have to ask.”
“It’s not my club. It’s some stalker fan.”
“You understand I need to rule out every possibility, right?”
I stand firm and look him straight in the eyes. “Then do it quick and don’t waste time.”
“Is there any chance she left on her own?”
The question throws me for a second. My jaw drops. “In her trunk?”
“We don’t actually know she was in the trunk.”
“Are you fucking shittin’ me right now?” Disbelief drips from every word. “How the fuck else did she get out of here with no one seeing her?”
“Is there a possibility the stress of the tour is too much and she skipped out? This is a lot for someone her age to handle.”
“No. She’s been working toward this for years. It’s stressful, sure. But she loves it. It’s what she was born to do.”
He stares at me for a second, like maybe he didn’t expect such a corny sentiment out of my crude biker mouth. “She could have hired someone to help her escape the tour—”
“You saw the same things I did in that dressing room, didn’t you?” Frustration bleeds into my words. This ‘Shelby escape plan’ theory isn’t where he needs to waste his time. There’s no fucking way my girl decided to up and leave.
“It’s a possibility,” he suggests.
“No, it’s not. Shelby’s not a quitter. And she wouldn’t leave without telling me. If she wanted to go AWOL, all she had to do was ask. I would’ve taken her anywhere she wanted. She knows that. I was planning to join her on the road. Help take some of the stress off of her.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Any chance she wanted to get away from you, then?”
“Jesus Christ, seriously?”
“I have to ask, Mr. Randall. Honestly, if I wasn’t the one standing here, as the boyfriend, we’d be looking a lot more closely at you.”
“I was on the other side of the arena when she was taken, for fuck’s sake.” I squeeze my eyes shut for a brief second. “Cindy. Shelby’s hair-and-makeup person. She took video of the security guards hassling us.”
“I’ll talk to her. We’ll test the water bottle too.” He pulls out his notebook again and jots down a few lines. “Personally, I don’t think you had anything to do with it.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He sighs and glances at his notepad, flipping back a few pages. “The letters are troubling.”
Relief courses through me. He’s moving off his Shelby-ditched-the-tour-and-her-possessive-biker-boyfriend theory. “No shit.”
He ignores the sarcasm. “I had a chance to briefly read them. They did not contain any direct threats.”
“Shelby sure felt threatened by them.”
“I don’t blame her. People who make direct threats to celebrities are less likely to act.” He taps the notepad. “This indirect ‘we belong together’ crap is usually indicative that the person plans to act. Still, I’m surprised it happened this soon.”
“Your point?”
He shakes his head. “Can I be honest?”
“Please do,” I answer with as little sarcasm as I can manage.
“The fact that whoever it was pulled this off so neatly concerns me. He would have had to be stalking her real close to time the situation the way he did.”
That thought’s been brushing up against me since the second I realized she was missing.
“Not only that,” Jackson continues, “but stalking situations usually go through stages. This guy clearly has the extreme entitlement and attachment to her, but she hasn’t even had a chance to reject him.”
“How was she supposed to reject anonymous letters?”
“Is it possible he was communicating with her in a different way at first? Maybe for a longer period of time?”
“She has a few creepers I’ve been keeping my eye on who seem to come to a lot of her shows.” I pull up some of the screenshots I’ve taken and show him.
He raises his eyebrows again. “You’re stalking her stalkers? That’s…interesting.”
“I was worried about her. For good reason. Obviously.”
He taps his fingers against his thigh. “Indulge me for a second. All the letters were dropped off for her, correct?”
“As far as I know, yes.” Thank fuck he’s focusing on relevant topics.
“Who could have left the letters? Not why. Just who had the opportunity?”
“Well, I wasn’t around for the first couple of letters, so I don’t know about them. I’d have to assume her band, Greg, and anyone involved with the tour. From what I understand, the first one was dropped off at the venue’s ticket window, and Greg brought it to Shelby’s room.”