HE’S STILL WATCHING
An hour later, Ruth was backing a car full of girls out of the driveway when she saw something sticking out of the mailbox. Huh. There was no mail delivery on the Fourth of July, or on Sunday. She put the car in PARK and opened her door.
“Mom? Come on!” Penny called to her.
“Just one second.” She grabbed the large, gold envelope, closed the box, and returned to the van to stash the letter into her tote bag. “Okay, girls, we are rolling.”
The swim park was more crowded than usual, but Ruth helped Penny and her friends stake out a spot in the shade of the tall pines where they could spread out the blanket and set up.
At half past the hour the lifeguards pulled all the kids out of the water for a ten-minute safety break, and Ruth counted the four girls huddled together on the dock before turning to her bag for her cell phone. That was when she remembered the gold envelope.
She removed it quickly, noticing it was unstamped, without an address. Curious, she opened it and pulled out a single sheet of paper—a photo.
Fear seeped through her as she recognized the sixteen-year-old version of herself standing on the dock. Next to her a more confident Kat was reaching up to swipe dark, wet hair from her face. At the edge of the dock stood Shiloh.
One fuzzy black-and-white photo, and the bottom dropped out of her world.
He was here, watching her, wanting something …
Books by Lisa Jackson
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ALL SHE EVER
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AND THEN SHE WAS
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TAKE ANOTHER
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DOMESTIC SECRETS
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Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
LISA JACKSON NANCY BUSH ROSALIND NOONAN
OMINOUS
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
HE’S STILL WATCHING
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part One - Three Girls
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Part Two - Shiloh
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part Three - Ruth
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part Four - Kat
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by Lisa Jackson LLC, Nancy Bush, and Rosalind Noonan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
First Kensington Books Hardcover Printing: May 2017
ISBN: 978-1-4201-3788-0
ISBN-10: 1-4201-3788-3
eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-3789-7
eISBN-10: 1-4201-3789-1
In memory of Bonzi, Ruby and the Binkster
Best writing companions ever
Part One
Three Girls
Fifteen years ago …
Chapter 1
They came.
As expected.
But this time there were three, not just two.
All young, on the brink of womanhood.
All with nubile, firm bodies.
All unaware that he was hidden, deep in the umbra of the woods surrounding the lake.
The back of his throat went dry, and he licked his lips in anticipation. As the tallest one began to strip in the moonlight, he felt his dick start to come alive, thickening beneath his jeans and hardening in anticipation, as if it had a life of its own. He skimmed his fingers down his zipper, feeling his boner, smiling before reaching for his belt and silently drawing his Bowie knife from its sheath. He traced the smooth steel of the slightly concave clip point with the tip of his finger and imagined the weapon plunging deep between the breasts of the girls who had gathered on the shoreline. Underage, they were here despite their parents’ warnings, because they were brazen and rebellious and … not good girls. This, he knew. Sensed. No, they were bad.
He felt his juices flowing, that little zing that sizzled through his blood at the thought of what he would do. Ahh, yessss …
But fi
rst things first.
He had to wait until the precise moment.
Parting the branches, he watched, his heartbeat accelerating, his breath coming in shorter gasps.
Moonlight was a ribbon on the smooth, unbroken surface of the lake, and the wind rustled through summer-dry branches, the hoot of an owl breaking the stillness.
Come on, he thought, his blood tingling. Take it off. He’d been to his share of strip clubs, first sneaking in when he was underage, then later, when there was no fear of being kicked out, sitting as near the stage as possible, watching the dancers carefully peel off their clothes in the most titillating manner. Over the years he became less interested in what was obviously staged, a practiced tease to turn on the audience and draw money from the viewers’ wallets. But this, three girls on a dock at a deserted Wyoming lake, this was different. More real. More raw. And the fact that these near-women had no idea that he was observing them was the ultimate turn-on.
He squinted, then lifted his night-vision goggles to get a better view. The tall one striding out to the end of the dock was a blonde with an athletic build, and he knew why. Shiloh. She was the cowgirl, a tomboy, though built like a woman, her pale hair braided into a rope that hung halfway down her long back.
The middle girl was shorter, but trim, a petite brunette, her father a cop. He smiled at that. Katrina. Patrick Starr’s kid. She resembled her mother and was a feisty thing. He knew. He’d watched. The fact that she was a detective’s daughter only made her all the more interesting. A taboo.
But the third girl baffled him, and he didn’t think he’d seen her before. Certainly she’d never come to swim nude with the others. He wouldn’t have missed her. She was the smallest. Petite. Her hair was probably some shade of red, he guessed, pinned into a topknot on her head. Despite her small frame, she had big tits. He couldn’t wait until she yanked off that sleeveless blouse she was wearing and showed ’em off.
Again his dick twitched.
He wondered at the color of her nipples. Pale and blushing? The kind that nearly blended into the surrounding soft tissue? Or big, dark discs with pointed little nubs that he’d love to suckle and nip?
Now his damned hard-on was pulsing.
But she was sitting on the edge of the dock now, hugging herself, hesitating. Come on now, girl, don’t hold back now. Who the hell was she? He zeroed in on the features of her face and didn’t recognize her, but he could imagine what it would feel like to have her slim legs wrap around his waist, the tightness of her moist pussy.
He had to look away for a second.
Couldn’t let sex distract him.
At least not yet.
Come on, come on. His whole body tensed as the disrobing began. Of course, it was Shiloh, the cowgirl, who started the strip show. Her friends were following suit. The cop’s daughter, supposedly whip smart, wasn’t shy either, but the third one was still hesitating.
So, now, which one?
Who would be the lucky girl?
He adjusted his ski mask and, raising one finger, pointed at the unwitting three as they innocently removed their clothes.
Eenie, meenie, miney, moe …
*
They should never have brought Ruthie.
That was the mistake.
And a huge one, Shiloh thought with more than a little rancor. She shouldn’t have agreed to the change in plans, should never have sat waiting in the truck she’d “borrowed” from her jackass of a stepdad while Katrina had sneaked up the well-manicured street to Ruthie McFerron’s house, tapped on the girl’s bedroom window, and helped her sneak out. Crap! What had Katrina been thinking when she’d suggested that Ruthie join them?
Shiloh should’ve argued the point. After all, she was the one taking all the chances. If Larimer Tate figured out she’d rolled his truck away from the ranch, not turning on the headlights until she was around the corner, taken his crap of a pickup without his permission, there would be hell to pay. Sometimes, she thought, shaking her hair loose from its long braid, she let other people rule her life. Always a problem. Tonight, letting Kat talk her into bringing the third girl was an example.
Obviously, Ruthie was having second thoughts about sneaking out of her parents’ house to join them, and now, of course, the little wimp was nervous, seeing ghosts in the shadows of the large aspens guarding this private lake, feeling as if unseen eyes were watching them.
The fact that the girl still went by Ruthie said it all. What sixteen-year-old would still be called Ruthie? And yet it fit, Shiloh thought, as she stripped off her dusty T-shirt and sweaty bra.
The cold breeze kissed her skin as she dropped both items into a pile on the dock. Ruthie McFerron was a baby. That’s all there was to it. And she’d been coddled by a neat, little holy-roller family, unlike the patchwork of weirdos Shiloh called family. Her mother had married a string of losers—the last, Larimer Tate, to whom Faye was still married, being the worst of the lot.
“But I think I saw something,” Ruthie whispered again.
“Like what? It’s dark as hell out here,” Shiloh grumbled as she worked at the top button of her jeans. She was having none of it. “You’re imagining things.”
“No, I think—”
“Shhh!” Katrina, a few steps behind the other two, hissed a warning. “No one’s out here. Just us.”
“Then why do we have to be quiet?” Ruthie’s round eyes were visible in the moonlight, the whites shimmering.
She was such a wuss.
“I think someone or something’s out here. There. Over there!” She pointed to a thicket of trees where the undergrowth was the darkest.
“Oh, for the love of God,” Shiloh muttered, kicking off her cutoff jeans and panties. They landed close enough to her T-shirt that if she had to grab them quickly, she could scoop up all of her clothes at once. Good enough if, on the off chance that Ruthie was right, there was someone hiding in the copse of saplings surrounding this lake. “It’s probably just a deer or a cougar, maybe a bear.”
Ruthie gasped. “A cougar? No, it couldn’t be a—”
Shiloh shrugged. “Then a wolf.”
Planks creaked underfoot as Ruthie backed toward the center of the dock. “Can wolves swim?”
“Stop it!” Katrina warned angrily. “Why do you do that? Huh? What’s wrong with you?” she asked, and Shiloh knew the question was aimed at her.
She didn’t answer. Girls like Katrina and Ruthie didn’t have a clue about the hot mess that was Shiloh’s life; they didn’t understand how living at home was far scarier than anything these woods could hide.
With a little less anger, Kat said, “Don’t mess with her. It’s her first time. She’s not used to disobeying her parents.”
Shiloh snorted to herself. Like Ruthie was some fragile china doll. But there was no talking Katrina down when she found a cause to get behind, and right now, Ruthie-damned-McFerron was her cause du jour.
Rebuked, Shiloh decided not to wait. Sucking in her breath, she made a shallow dive into the icy water. She barely made a splash in the still, humid night. Grateful for the frigid grip of the lake and the silence it brought with it, she swam deep under the water as if she could get away from the sting of Katrina’s words. But the question What’s wrong with you? chased after her, echoing through her brain.
Not for the first time.
Maybe it was her needy mother and the slew of broke-ass stepfathers who always eyed Shiloh with more than a little lust. Larimer Tate was the worst of the slimy lot, a sick bastard if there ever was one.
Or maybe she’d just been born with a bad attitude. Who knew? And really, who gave a crap? She tried to ignore Kat’s question, attempted to shrug it off, as she did with anyone’s criticism, be it constructive or not, but the words burrowed deep in her brain: What’s wrong with you?
Nothing! She let a few bubbles escape from the sides of her mouth, and they rose around her, catching the moon’s reflection in the inky depths. Really, it was all Ruthie’s fault. Not hers.
Skimming along the bottom, she wondered why she’d ever allowed Ruthie to come anyway. The girl was the daughter of a minister, one of those fire-and-brimstone types who were always condemning sinners to hell. Shiloh had known sneaking Ruthie out and heading here to go skinny dipping was asking, no, make that begging, for trouble, but Katrina seemed hell-bent on making friends with wimpy Ruthie.
For the life of her, Shiloh didn’t understand why, but she sure wasn’t surprised that the girl was jumping at shadows. Well, fine. Katrina had wanted Ruthie to come along, so now she could deal with the girl and her case of nerves. Served them both right.
Her lungs started to ache, and she shot upward to the surface, tossing her hair from her face. Treading water, she observed the moonlight shining through the trees to show in stippled lines upon the lake’s dark surface. Ripples moved around her as she turned onto her back, her bare breasts exposed. At least her muscles were finally relaxing after a day filled with dust and chaff from bucking hay and training a particularly stubborn colt. She enjoyed the horses, hated hauling the scratchy bales into the barn, detested working with her useless stepfather, though. What a douche.
Ruthie and Katrina were still on the dock, where they were finally removing their clothes. About damned time. Katrina was probably having to convince the younger girl that being naked was okay. What a head case!
She turned again, and from the corner of her eye, she thought she saw movement, just the barest alteration of the shadows in the foliage flanking the lake. Her muscles tensed as she blinked away the drops of water clinging to her lashes. Telling herself that they’d distorted her vision, she focused hard but saw nothing she shouldn’t. She gave herself a quick mental shake. Ruthie’s overactive imagination was infecting her. That was all.
Damn. Shiloh had come here all summer long and never once seen or heard anyone. Nothing had changed when Katrina, thinking a swim sounded good after a greasy, smoky shift washing dishes at Big Bart’s Buffalo Lounge, had started tagging along. So why would that all change. Because of Ruthie?