Free Privacy Code (Shatterproof) by Jordan Burke

she wrote, using the fake named I’d given her. “Remember me? I bet you do, but in case you don’t, maybe this will refresh your memory. You were the first guy I had ever tried reverse cowgirl with. Remember me telling you that? Anyway, I am back in town for the next six days and—”
    I hit delete. I didn’t even finish reading her email. It was obvious where it was going, and I just didn’t care.
    She wasn’t Catherine.
    None of them were Catherine.
    While still logged into the dating site, I went to the account settings and deleted my membership.
    Done. Finished. I wouldn’t go back there because I couldn’t go back even if I wanted to.
    I turned my attention to other matters, pulling up my contacts list and finding the email address of a book collector I’d sold some titles to the previous month. He bought only signed copies of books, any edition, so I knew he would buy the copy of Lolita, and he’d buy it fast.
    I wrote to him, quoting $9,000. Within an hour he wrote back and said if I let it go for $8,200 we had a deal.
    I placed it in a book mailing box. It would go out the next day, I’d have the money by then, and it would all go in my “Go To Hell” fund.
     
    . . . . .
     
    Drifting off to sleep that night, I gave some more thought to what I was beginning to refer to as The Catherine Dilemma.
    I had no idea whether she’d even talk to me, so all of the effort I put into it could be a lost cause from the beginning. Still, I had to work it out for myself.
    My physical attraction to her was undeniable, and I had to be honest with myself in admitting that it was a strong driving factor in what I was about to decide. And no matter the other thoughts and feelings I had for her, yes, I still wanted to have her.
    If I saw her again, I’d be breaking my own rule, which was in place for a damn good reason. I had already put her in the potential line of danger by seeing her once. Was it w orth the risk to see her twice?
    I was getting to the point where the question was all about the risk and danger it presented for her, and no longer what kind of danger I was putting myself in.
    She had often mentioned her reclusive lifestyle, never talking about friends or dates. If I had hurt her as badly as I feared, I hoped she had someone to fall back on. Like family, maybe. Or supportive co-workers.
    She had never said anything about those, either. I had never given it much thought but now I wondered what type of job she had and what she did all day.
    I had seen pain on her face that had come from somewhere deep inside, very likely from an old emotional wound.
    I could relate to that very well. That’s why I saw it in her expression. I’d seen it so many times on my own face as I shaved, brushed my teeth, any time I was in front of a mirror, actually.
    We had the obvious connection built during our months of emailing, but now I knew we had something else in common—something like what they call a “trauma bond” only I had no idea if we’d gone through similar types of anguish in our lives.
    Did she see it on my face that night? Was I even showing it?
    And what was at stake if we did make that connection?
    I decided to sleep on it.
     
    . . . . .
     
    I woke the next morning, went downstairs and started the coffee machine while I cooked breakfast—two scrambled eggs, one slice of bacon, one slice of toast, and an orange. I pulled up the local paper on my iPad and read the story as I ate.
    It was much the same as the report on the local TV news when the story first broke, but the paper’s website said the cops had made tentative positive identifications on the victims.
    That was never a good thing in my business. Even though my work was done there, I would have to keep a close eye on any further developments. It wouldn’t be easy, though, which I would find out the hard way in the coming days, as I became increasingly focused on what to do about Catherine.
     

 
     
    Chapter Thirteen – Catherine
     
     
    The