Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 95676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
"These are the pictures she's posted, in the order she posted them," I explain as she scrolls through. "Your modeling shots are mixed in with newer photos, all out of order."
"That doesn't prove anything."
"No, but people don't generally post old photos of themselves and claim they're new, especially when all anyone has to do is call your former agency to find out when a particular photo was taken and by whom."
She glances up at me, startled. "You did that?"
"I've tracked down dates for as many of them as I could. It's not a lot to go on, but it's a start in proving you aren't the person hiding behind this Facebook profile." I nudge her hand aside and open another document. "This is a list of all the times she said she was traveling. Bryan Gleeson is already working on getting me your attendance records. It'll take all of five minutes to prove you were teaching during some of these alleged trips."
She scrolls through the dates, but only one or two are familiar to me. "I was in Los Angeles at this time," she murmurs, pointing to the date. "I played at Antonio's club that night or the next night. And that one"―She points the mouse at another date―"was when I flew to San Diego with Erin."
"So you were out of town twice when she was, but you were in town eight or nine other times."
"Yeah," she says.
"I've talked to a number of her Facebook friends as well. You were right. None of them have actually met her in person." I cock my head to the side, looking at her. "If she's really you, why haven't any of her friends met her? The details don't add up. You stopped modeling three years ago, but she still pretends she's living the life. She's never mentioned being a teacher, nor does she ever talk about your volunteer work. Most of the time, she doesn't even mention your gigs until they're over and done with. If this was you, there would be some hint of your real life and there isn't. She's made her own version of a perfect life, and she cut out all the details that didn't appeal to her…all those things that make you who you are. You aren't a model, baby girl. You're a teacher. Everyone who knows you knows you love your job, and they know you don't model any longer."
"I hated modeling," she whispers after a moment, staring at the screen. "I only did it to make sure my dad was taken care of."
"Because that's who you are," I say, pushing the laptop aside and crawling over her. "You aren't this person. Anyone with sense will see that. You just have to give me time to find the right information. I promise you that I won't let you go to prison for this."
"It's not enough," she whispers.
"Then I'll keep looking."
"That's not what I mean. I don't want her to get away with this, Cam. Whoever she is, she's dangerous. We have to stop her before she hurts someone else."
"We will," I promise, leaning down to capture her lips with mine. "I'm not going to let her get away with hurting you. No way in hell does she get to go free, not if I have anything to say about it."
Chapter Fifteen
Ivy
"You're sure?" I ask, glancing out the window of his SUV at the crowded restaurant. "I mean…can't we just eat at the hotel?" Until now, that's how we've eaten every other meal. I'd prefer to eat this one that way too, but Cam insisted on taking me to dinner.
"No," he says, reaching over to massage the back of my neck. "I'm not going to keep you hidden away like a secret."
"But―"
"No." He narrows his eyes at me, a frown playing at his lips.
"Fine," I say with a sigh, knowing damn well arguing isn't going to get me anywhere. Not with that scowl on his face. He'll toss me over his shoulder and carry me inside if he has to do it. I unlatch my seatbelt with trembling fingers and take a breath. "Let's do this."
"Look at me first," he says, stilling me with a hand when I reach for the handle of the door.
I turn to glare at him. "What?"
"Stop," he murmurs, his voice soft and his gaze softer. "You don't have anything to be afraid of, kitten. No one is going to pick up their pitchforks or torches while we're eating dinner."
"I'm not worried about me," I mutter.
"What'd I tell you?" he asks, arching a brow. "I make my own choices."
I bite my lip to keep myself from telling him that I think this particular choice of his sucks. Saying it won't get me anywhere, expect maybe spanked. As fun as it is to have his hand on my ass, I'd rather not have it happen in the SUV in front of God and everybody.