Gaslighted in Colorado by Cassie Miles

Author:Cassie Miles
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2021-12-14T18:23:31+00:00

Chapter Twelve

The red letters spilled across the lined yellow paper and swirled before Caroline’s eyes like a whirlpool, sucking her deeper into panic. Caroline: Get out of town, bitch. The threat frightened her, but she couldn’t allow herself to give in. She had to fight.

How had the person who wrote the note gotten into her room and mimicked her handwriting? Somehow, he or she had bypassed the security measures. And why did they want to get rid of her, make her leave town? She hadn’t forgotten the other warning from Popov that she shouldn’t try to remember.

Concentrating hard, she fought the shivers that shook her to the bone. Think! She couldn’t let her panic overtake reason. I’m a sensible person. At least, she used to be.

John grasped her arm and turned her toward him. “It’s okay, we’ll figure this out.”

She clung to him, buried her face against his broad chest and hung on tight, needing the sense of safety he effortlessly provided. He was a lawman—he knew right from wrong and would protect her. His warmth wrapped around her like a wool blanket, and her panic subsided. He was her anchor, her sanctuary from one more trauma. As disasters went, the note wasn’t so awful. No one had died. She wasn’t hurt.

She inhaled and exhaled slowly, counting her breaths. Their physical contact became something more than an expression of his kindness. In a flash, her senses awakened. His scent, like a forest after a spring rain, sank into her consciousness. She felt the hard strength of his muscles. Her hands on his back caressed the fabric of his shirt. When she tilted her head and looked up at him, the sharp angles of his features created a mesmerizing vision, but she knew full well that she must not allow herself to melt into his arms.

Loosening her grasp, she stepped back. “If I crossed a line, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” He held the note so she could see. “Tell me what you see.”

She focused on the shapes and slant of the writing. All of the o’s were perfect, detached circles. The f and t letters were written in a smooth, cursive style, tilted toward the right. And the capitals were heavy blocks. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the writing, except that every part matched her penmanship habits. “My name at the top could easily pass for my signature.”

The conclusion was inescapable and horrible: she’d written a scary letter to herself, referred to herself as a bitch and hid the note under her pillow. But she had no conscious awareness of having picked up a marker and written on the yellow paper. Did she have an alter ego? A split personality?

Adrenaline surged through her veins and punched her energy level to the top of the charts. Before John had entered her room, she’d debated with herself: Should she tell him about the match with her handwriting or not? She didn’t want him to think she was losing control. Thus far, he hadn’t

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