“Job?” Amber frowned, as if she’d never heard of the word. “What kind of job?”
“I don’t know. Retail maybe? Except, I don’t have any experience,” Hallie admitted. “And office work is out. I can’t really type, and spending too long in front of a computer makes my head hurt.”
“Hmmm,” Amber mused. “If you were over twenty-one, I know a ton of hosting gigs you could get . . .” She brightened. “How about dogs?”
Hallie stared at her blankly.
“Marilyn and Monroe need walking twice a day,” Amber explained. “We pay a boy to come take them, but you could do it instead. They’re darling, no trouble at all, and you’d get tons of exercise!”
Hallie paused, reluctant. “I guess . . .”
“And it’s flexible, so you have all that time for your acting things!” Amber seemed convinced. She headed for the door, phone in hand. “I’ll go call, say we’ve found someone else. Yay!”
“Yay,” Hallie echoed faintly. Dog walking and universal rejection — was this what her shining future had come to? She opened the huge fridge and gazed listlessly at the rows of bottled water and no-fat yogurt. All her excitement from earlier in the week had drained away, and now Hallie just felt tired and —
“AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
She let out an almighty scream. A strange man was standing five feet away from her. No, worse than that, she realized with a dawning horror. The crazy guy from the coffee shop!
Hallie screamed again, reeling back behind the kitchen island. “What are you doing? Get away from me!”
“Whoa, calm down!” The guy had his hands up. “You’ve made a mistake.”
“No, you did!” Hallie yelled, scrabbling in her purse. “I have Mace!”
Except she didn’t. Wrong purse.
She lunged for the butcher block and grabbed a seven-inch carving knife, waving it at him. He leaped back. “Get away from me! Security!” she screamed. “Security!”
“I’m telling you, I’m Brandon,” the guy insisted, flustered. “I live next door. I’m not a —”
“SECURITY!”
Amber came racing back into the room, just as Uncle Auggie and her mom burst through the patio doors. “What’s going on?”
Hallie jabbed the knife toward the intruder. “He’s stalking me!” Hallie cried. “He must have followed me back from town the other day. He’s trying to kill me! Or worse!”
There was a pause, then Auggie began to laugh.
“It’s not funny!” Hallie was shaking. This was how Nightline specials went: the beautiful young woman, the deranged stalker . . . “He broke in! He was trying to attack me!”
“He has a key,” Auggie explained, still chuckling. “He lives next door.”
Hallie caught her breath, trying to process the situation. “He’s not a crazy stalker?” she ventured in a small voice.
“Nope.”
“And you didn’t follow me back?” she asked Brandon.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
Hallie glared at him, the knife still clenched in her hand, just in case. Sure, they said he was safe, but wasn’t that what they all said about serial killers. “Oh, yes, he lived next door, perfectly normal until that day he snapped and cut her up into five dozen pieces.”
“Really,” Brandon insisted. “It’s OK.” He approached slowly, hands open, as if she were a wild animal. Closer, closer . . . He carefully took the knife from her shaking hand and laid it on the counter.
It seemed to Hallie that the entire room exhaled. Brandon gave her a nervous smile. “I guess I should have used the main bell.”
Hallie looked around. Adrenaline was still pumping through her, her whole body paralyzed with fear. “I thought I was going to die!” she cried, and burst into tears.
Hallie had to retire to the lounge to calm down; stretched on the velvet chaise with her mom and Brandon clustered around. She pressed a cold compress to her forehead, and let out another moan.
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” Brandon looked anxious. Hallie carefully shifted away from him. Psycho killer or not, he still creeped her out, with his two-day stubble and wavy brown hair in dire need of a cut falling over that scar. Freakier than the poor personal grooming, and those baggy cargo pants, however, was the stoic kind of silent vibe he radiated, like he was watching every move she made.
“I’m fine.” Hallie’s voice quivered bravely. “Just a little faint.” She dreaded to think what would have happened if it had been a real killer hunting her down. Uncle Auggie would probably have made a movie of the week (Lock All the Doors: The Hallie Weston Story), and Hallie would have been doomed to be immortalized by a failed sitcom actress who couldn’t emote.
“There, there.” Hallie’s mom patted her absently, before turning back to Brandon. “Come, sit down. What did you say your name was?”
“Brandon Mitchell, ma’am. Like I said, we live next door, and Auggie lets me drop by to use his darkroom. I really am sorry,” he told Hallie again, looking shameful.
She managed a brave shrug. “I’ll be OK. . . . Eventually.”
“I was actually looking for you and your sister,” Brandon continued, his gaze fixed on Hallie. “To, um, invite you to this pool party, in Malibu. But, I guess, you’re not really in a mood to go out,” he added quickly.
A party? With him? “No, thanks,” Hallie replied, at the same time as her mom exclaimed, “What a great idea!”
“Mom!” Hallie glared. “I’m recovering!”
“Shh, you said it yourself, you’ll be fine. And I’m sure Grace would be happy to get out of the house.” Valerie beamed at Brandon. “They’d love to come. What time is it?”
“Uh, I can come by and pick you up around eight?” Brandon looked to Hallie. She sighed, and lifted her shoulders in the faintest of shrugs. “OK! Great! I’ll see you then. You and your sister, I mean,” he added, before bolting from the room.
The moment he was gone, Hallie turned on her mom. “Why did you do that? He’s . . . weird!”
“Don’t be silly.” Valerie patted her again. “He’s just a little shy, that’s all. And Amber said, his father is very successful. Apparently, he owns a law firm that has all the A-list clients.”