Because You're Mine Read online

  “Levin.” She exhales, and I can tell what she has to tell me is tough for her. She searches my face. “Alec Durant is a killer. He murdered my younger sister.”

  The world starts to spin. My veins turn to ice like my whole body is frozen. My eyes get wide.

  She continues, “Alec dated my sister in college at the University of Oklahoma. She was found dead her senior year of college. He was the last known person to see her.”

  I stare at her in disbelief. Pigs flying sounded more believable at this moment.

  “Did he ever tell you about her?” she asks.

  “Nooo.” I am flabbergasted.

  “Her name is, was, Heidi. Heidi Hopkins.”

  “She disappeared?”

  “She didn’t disappear. She was never lost.” Liz looks at me hard. “Levin, do you want to sit?”

  I can’t speak. She clicks her keys and helps me into the passenger seat. I ease back into the cool leather, my skin matching the freezing temperature.

  “I’m going to come around and sit.” Liz shuts my door. She slides in and reaches for her purse. She pulls out her wallet and a tattered picture creased from being folded and unfolded. “This is Heidi.” Her hands shake as she fingers the picture.

  I make a motion to look at the picture. Liz is right, my doppelgänger is staring back at me. A gorgeous brunette with long legs and an even smile, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. This is a cheerleading picture, and Heidi Hopkins is wearing a uniform, pom-poms in hand, looking like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

  Except now she is dead—at the hands of my fiancé.

  “You need to leave and soon.” Liz sounds like a concerned parent talking about an issue at the school bake sale, the chocolate chip cookies not organic or gluten-free. Not my life being turned upside down, the love of my life a cold-blooded girlfriend killer.

  “What happened?” I don’t want to know. I wish she wouldn’t tell me. My palms are clammy, and I try to wipe them on my sweatpants.

  “Eric, that’s his name, right?” Liz reaches for my icy fingers, “I keep up with Alec. He was never charged, but his name came up in a Google search. I saw his business partner died. Then a year later, almost on the dot, he gets engaged to you.” Liz holds my hands tight. “I had to warn you.”

  I think back to my relationship with Eric—the only solid friendship I ever had. He was my rock. I had watched him grow from a shy, introspective boy into a confident, outgoing, and sexy man. He had kept the qualities that made him irresistible to both sexes—a calming persona that could soothe even the most tempestuous of clients and associates and had been able to rein me in when I was on a destructive path during my adolescent years.

  He tutored me, so I didn’t fail out of high school after my mom had overdosed on pain medication. Though she claimed it was an accident, I had my suspicions. If I had her life, I would be looking for a respite from it all.

  Eric’s mistake, if one could categorize it as a mistake, was that he had fallen in love with a married man. The man’s wife had unloaded on Alec. It didn’t help that he had three young children and a dead-end marriage—the money was the root of the problem.

  “When was this?” I manage to squeak out. My voice sounds foreign. A strangled cat would make more sense.

  “This was their senior year of college, almost sixteen years ago.” Liz wipes a tear from her eye. “She never came home to visit, and we knew... we knew something was wrong.”

  “How?” I close my eyes and lean my head back into the headrest. A headache is migrating through my temples. I reach up and rub it.

  “Heidi was choked to death.” Liz is quiet as she gathers her thoughts. “Days later, she was found in her bed by her roommate. Her roommate had been visiting her boyfriend out of town for fall break.”

  “I don’t understand...” My voice trails off. “I don’t understand why you think this.”

  Liz looks at me with the most sorrowful eyes, pain apparent in the bright blue of her irises. “Levin, listen to me,” her tone urgent. “You have to leave him. He killed my sister. I hired a PI who thinks he killed Eric. He’s urging the authorities to re-open both cases.”

  I cut her off. “I want to go to the police, but Alec will know. He watches my every move. I need something, some proof.”

  “Yes, he’s cunning.” Liz shoves her keys in the ignition and starts the engine. “Heidi was going to leave Alec, and he murdered her. Eric was going to leave Alec, and he murdered him.”

  My head goes from pounding to throbbing to screaming.

  “I have to go, he could be coming back shortly. We can’t be seen talking, or this will be for nothing.”

  She has a valid point, but I am glued to the seat. The sweat is sticking to my back holding me in place.

  “That card I gave you is for my friend and has a legit number. If you need to get in contact with me, call her. It won’t look suspicious since she does sell beauty products.” Liz is toying with another thought. “The police are going to re-open the case, Levin. When they do, I don’t want you to be his next victim.”

  The chills shiver down my spine in succession. I manage to push open the door and force myself onto the sidewalk, the sun setting over another gorgeous San Diego day, no warning that behind that cloudless sky, there is a rapidly brewing storm.

  Chapter Six

  Alec

  I start my 8:00 a.m. client meeting with an aura of authority, impressing the client with my knowledge on the plat he’s interested in and the ability to develop a parcel of land that he’d previously had zoning issues with. I spew out numbers, boredom creeping in, my brain on autopilot. Tell me something I don’t know, I preface the client. Might’ve taken it a little too far, but I’m confident he likes my swagger.

  Passing my secretary, Bridget’s, desk, she flags me down with a question about dinner this evening. Her phone cradles her left shoulder, and she’s deep in conversation wagging her finger in the air to get my attention. She refuses the idea of a headset, her argument being it makes her feel like she’s working in a call center. I demur. She’s the one running the place or gossiping. It’s a toss-up, fifty-fifty if it’s personal or professional.

  She wants a count for the restaurant.

  “Is Levin coming?” Bridget asks, nonchalant.

  I feel my face start to burn, my temperature rising. I lower my eyes and shrug my shoulders.

  “Alec?” she asks again, “Is Levin coming to dinner tonight?”

  “I don’t know,” I say more cross than I intend.

  Bridget looks at me nonplussed. “When will you?”

  “She’s not feeling well.” I lie.

  She sighs. “Let me know later?”

  Bridget knows my moods. She takes my sigh to mean that she should leave me the hell alone. She looks down at her computer screen to halt the conversation. I can get through to Bridget without much effort.

  Who I couldn’t seem to get through to was Levin.

  I still couldn’t reach her.

  Levin knows better than to disappear or to ghost me.

  This behavior, disconcerting as it is, prompts me to contact George, my private investigator, the one I keep around just in case. In life, there are always those just-in-case moments that give you pause. There is no price on a man who can take your secrets to the grave.

  He doesn’t answer. I hang up.

  We don’t leave voicemails or a trail. I’ll try him back later.

  I speed dial Levin one more time. Her sing-song voice cuts through the unrest in my head, rapid-fire thoughts coming my way.

  “This is Levin Crowdley, leave a message.” I’d heard that greeting a thousand times before, but today it rattled me. The anger was starting to rise, the flush creeping up my neck.

  Half a dozen messages and no calls back, I feel like a pubescent boy waiting on a date for the prom, already knowing the girl of his dreams has said no but hasn’t relayed the message to him.

  I call her gym.
They say she’s canceled her appointment today.

  Trying the animal shelter next, no one answers. I let it ring at least twenty times before giving up.

  Did Levin know about Eric?

  Or was this about my quest to have a baby?

  I didn’t expect Levin to be upset when I told her I threw her birth control pills out last week. She could barely remember what day of the week it was, so I thought she would be relieved that she didn’t have to remember to take a pill every day.

  With my fortieth birthday fast approaching, I was starting to consider our fertility, and namely, my ability to procreate. I would also be grateful for the inheritance our child would stand to receive based upon Eric’s will if Levin got married and had children.

  In high school, my girlfriend and I didn’t use condoms, and she never got pregnant.

  Tara, a girl I hooked up with on and off throughout college, was never on birth control. Our drunken hook-ups were legendary in my frat house, especially since she was a bicycle—ridden by everyone—a shared secret with my Sigma Phi brothers.

  Then there was Heidi. Heidi Hopkins, who broke my heart. Heidi had an abortion. I found out it was someone else’s. The college rumor mill had given away this priceless piece of information.

  After the procedure, she was going to leave me. She was going to leave me. The baby wasn’t mine. I lost all sensibilities. I was cut out of her life, just like that. All the big moments in life, I’m on the sidelines.

  Take Eric for example. He was trying to sever ties with me when he died. The business we founded he wanted me to walk away from, like an absentee parent.

  I didn’t want Levin to find out, but she’s the beneficiary. I had no choice.

  I had been cut out of the will, so I was also provided a copy as standard procedure. ‘Disinherited,’ they called it. I called it ‘highway robbery.’ I saw red, the instinct to get my hands around Eric’s neck a thrilling idea.

  My idea had been to get married as soon as possible foregoing a long engagement. For once, time was a luxury even I couldn’t afford. Eric was our link, the lifeline that connected Levin and me.

  I’d met Eric in grad school, and we’d opened our business together shortly after. His dad had been our investor, our biggest supporter.

  After Eric died, his parents and I agreed to stay in touch. I was like a third son to them, though more like a second since the other son was a royal fuck-up. Eric’s older brother, Brad, was in drug rehab for the fourth time, and it didn’t look like this time would stick either. He had missed the funeral because his heroin addiction had spiraled out of control yet again. His parents had spent countless dollars on trying to clean him up, and, if I might add, wasted money that could have been better spent on our business endeavors. A pair of shoes was more worthwhile to invest in than Brad’s cleanliness. Better return on investment, if you asked me.

  Being close to his parents also allowed me to keep them close in case I needed to be privy to any information they had regarding his death. It also provided me the opportunity to ask Eric’s dad for money if I needed it in a pinch.

  If Levin left, there would be serious consequences. My entire plan would crumble. All of this would have been for nothing.

  I check the GPS tracker app installed on my phone.

  According to this, the Range Rover is in the garage.

  My palms sweat. I wipe them on my desk.

  Maybe she has a man in the house? My temperature inches upward and internally, my blood boils. My hands ball into tight fists as I clench and unclench them. My jaw is set.

  I log into my computer tapping my fingers on the keyboard. There are video cameras all over the house. The security system shows me the available cameras in and around the house.

  No Levin.

  I’m able to go back, and I watch her leave. She goes out the garage, no backward glance, nothing. Her vehicle is still in the driveway.

  My fingers are a steeple as I consider her whereabouts.

  One does not reach this level of success in life by being lackadaisical.

  For this reason, I keep tabs on Levin. She is, after all, my greatest asset.

  The journal I keep on her is imperative to our growth as a couple and her as my fiancée.

  I fish the key for my desk drawer out of the bottom of an envelope on my bookshelf.

  I reach down in my mahogany desk drawer and pull out the black moleskin journal I keep on Levin. It’s buried beneath some old financial documents and outdated real estate magazines.

  The pages are creased and starting to show my frenzied pace on taking notes.

  Levin’s diet. Levin’s eating habits. What our chef prepares. What I dislike her eating because it hurts her stomach. The types of seafood she can tolerate—salmon is disgusting and fishy to her, but tuna tartare is edible. Her periods. Mood swings. Medication. She has to take Xanax for her anxiety at times. I note her depression. Unsurprising, really, with the upbringing she had. This could all be useful someday.

  The most important part of my black book—Levin’s schedule. The days she volunteers at the animal shelter (Monday, Wednesday, and Friday). Her gym classes (Barre, Abs on Fire, Cardio Cinch), and her trainer’s name (Andrew Metz, the Greek God trainer).

  She rarely mentions any friends. Her family is all dead—probably for the best—deadbeats.

  She doesn’t need any other commitments or any other priorities taking her away from me. She’s all mine, just the way I like it.

  Her passwords would be the most important except those are committed to memory. Her email, voicemail, and PIN for her ATM card are all stored up top.

  I write a few notes on her behavior today, biting my lip as I think about the morning. Oh dear, I hope this isn’t going to become a pattern. I get up and place the tiny silver key back in the envelope and hide it back on the bookshelf.

  My thoughts are racing, re-playing her actions today. I impatiently tap my fingers on the desk.

  Maybe she’s meeting someone. That Andrew Metz guy—her trainer—but not to work out.

  A heart attack is imminent for the direction my mind is headed.

  Money, I think to myself. Money is the common denominator with everything in life. You either have it, or you don’t.

  Bingo. Time for a check of Levin’s bank account.

  Lucky for me, the president of the bank is my friend, an old golf chum of mine, and as soon as she set up that account, he assured me I’d be privy to it. I know what she spends her money on—every dime of it. Usually, it’s for her own choice in clothing or basic necessities.

  There are large withdrawals over the last few days. The current balance is $.01.

  I inhale, my stomach is queasy. I put my head between my legs wanting to rip my computer off the desk and smash it into pieces.

  Like a car accident you can’t pry your eyes from, I log in to the cell phone account, knowing I’m not going to like the results.

  There are no outgoing calls today, but her cell phone is in my name, and I note the amount of unknown numbers and blocked caller IDs on the bill.

  I call her cell again. It goes straight to voicemail. This time, I punch in her password on the keypad and tap my pen, the irritation apparent by the loud thwacks as it hits the desk. I hold my breath as I wait to hear how many voicemails she has since yesterday afternoon when I last checked.

  Andrew Metz, her twenty-eight-year-old buff trainer that resembles Zac Efron, the Baywatch version, has left her a message. He called her a half hour ago about her missed appointment.

  “Hey, sweetie, this is Andy. We missed each other this morning. I don’t like when you miss,” he clears his throat and pauses for an awkward silence. “I need to see you soon.”

  I slam the phone back in the cradle and lean back in my chair, hard enough that I almost somersault backward onto the plush beige carpeting of my office.

  That whore is cheating.

  Levin Crowdley had said yes and made a commitment when I slipped a ring on her fing
er.

  I knew it was a surprise to her. I saw the way her face reacted and her body shook. She had no idea it was coming, maybe she didn’t even know it was what she wanted.

  But she had to want it because I did.

  I own her now. She’s mine.

  The stakes are too high to let her go.

  I pick up the phone and dial.

  I have one more call to make.

  The phone rings twice before a woman comes on and asks me to hold. The silence is palpable, and my eyes drift. I can’t help but glance at the silver and gold-plated picture frame on the corner of my desk. It is one of the happiest days of my life—Levin and I standing outside of the house I had purchased for us. I am standing with my arm around her as the white stucco looms behind us, symbolic of how far I have come up in this world.

  The guy gets the house and the girl.

  I think back to a few months ago when I had picked out a house for us.

  I knew it wasn’t exactly her style, but it was mine. The massive floor plan was guaranteed to give me a hard-on. I liked big. The bigger, the better.

  Some might say I have a short-man complex. I prefer to call it drive and determination. When you have money, who cares what complex you have?

  The house was over four thousand square feet complete with a pool, hot tub, cabana, and built-in BBQ. It was an entertainer’s paradise.

  The furniture was mainly glass and black leather and included in the sale of the house. Various surfaces had shiny, slick surfaces that showed every fingerprint smudge but looked expensive. I knew this decorum would be replaced with more sensible tastes when a baby came, but that was a price I was willing to pay for the greater good. I’d sacrifice it all to ensure my plan worked.

  The only part of the house that piqued her interest was the pergola in the backyard. It provided shade, and it was her peaceful retreat. She spent her time with a book in hand, lounging on a patio chair, sometimes comfortable with Hemingway, on the flipside King, and she loved the shade it provided.

  Within thirty days, it was ours. The morning we closed, finalized the paperwork, and received the keys was etched into my memory. I headed into the office to work for a few hours, and she managed the movers.