Be Mine

By Tristi Pinkston

If you like Mary Higgins Clark, you'll love Be Mine by Tristi Pinkston.

He knows where she works.

He knows where she lives.

And soon, they'll come face-to-face.

Erin Lewis is an up-and-coming fashion designer building up her career in New York City. With a loving husband, a great assistant, and working in the field of her dreams, she couldn't be happier.

But perfection can't last forever.

When a long string of tragedies shakes Erin to her core, she doesn't know how to keep moving forward day by day. And when she is targeted by a brutal serial killer, she must find the inner strength she never knew she had just to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tristi Pinkston
• Release date: Jun 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201842444

Book preview

Praise for Be Mine:

I have a terrible habit of picking up on the ‘whodunit’ of these types of mysteries way too early to fully enjoy the book. This book was wonderful for me because every time I thought I'd figured it out something would happen in the story that would make me doubt. So while I can say the villain was in my list of suspects, I really didn't know for sure until the big reveal. Well done! – C. Chesley

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"I have enjoyed reading thrillers since I was in high school. There's something about scaring myself to death while reading a book in the middle of the night. My grandma had the same love and we enjoyed talking about all the Mary Higgins Clark books we'd read. When she passed last year, I was sad for many reasons, but one of those was that I couldn't share exciting thrillers with her.

I loved this book. It had me scared and wanting to keep reading to find out who the bad guy was. – Jaclyn W.

Dedication

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To all my friends and readers on the East Coast who were affected by Hurricane Sandy. I was writing this book when the storm hit, and I chose to show your towns as they once were and as they will be again. My thoughts and prayers have been with you.

Chapter One

T

hings were not going how he’d planned.

When he was a senior in college, he knew what he wanted and had mapped it out to the last detail. He knew where he wanted to live, what he wanted to do with his life—he had even chosen the type of person to spend that life with. He’d set out to fulfill every one of those dreams. He’d done his part and paid his dues. He should have the world in his pocket by now, but no.

Forced to leave his job, to move out-of-state to avoid the ugliness, and to build a new life from the ground up, he could barely face each day. What had he become?

And this woman ... she was the worst of all. He could never make her happy, no matter how hard he tried. She found fault with everything he did. Some days he jumped through all her hoops and some days he didn’t even try—she treated him the same regardless. He’d decided a long time ago to stick with the basics and let all the extra little niceties go. She didn’t deserve them anyway.

He reached into his camera bag and pulled out his 35mm f1.4 and a polishing cloth. He took his time, wiping away all the dust, not that there was any—he took better care of his camera equipment than most people took of their newborn babies. Then he held the lens up to the light, checking for residue, particles, water droplets, scratches—anything that might have escaped his attention when he put it away last time. Finally satisfied, he placed it next to the camera on the table and pulled his notebook closer.

His life’s goals and dreams were written down the left-hand side of the first page, with notes on how to accomplish them on the right. The handwriting was starting to fade—he’d made this list in college, a long time ago. He was surprised that the notebook itself had held up through the years of being pulled in and out of moving boxes and carried from town to town. Always buy American made, he thought. 

Reading the list had become his bedtime ritual. Sometimes it made him feel nostalgic to look back at the idealistic youth he’d once been. Other times, he was filled with anger at all that had been taken from him. Tonight was an angry night. He grabbed his lens from the table, a bit too roughly, and then apologized to it. He had no right to treat it so unkindly—it was his only friend. One of his only friends, he amended. His other lenses sat nearby, patiently waiting their turn to be useful to him.

He affixed the lens to his Canon, tucked the notebook away, then slipped out the door. No matter what was going on in his life, no matter how abused or mistreated he felt, these little moments were his, and no one could take them away from him.

Erin’s head snapped up as her boss, Adam Bailey, threaded his way across the floor to the table where she worked. She didn’t know why she was so nervous—after all, she’d already landed the account that would make her career—but there was still something in her relationship with Adam that didn’t sit right with her. He was a little too intrusive, he seemed to know things about her that a boss really didn’t need to know, and he acted like he held her fate in the fashion industry in his well-manicured hand. That wasn’t true, though—her fate was in Kristen Davenport’s well-manicured hand and would be until she finished this line. Nothing like a pampered, fading starlet bent on having her own way to put a damper on someone’s creativity.

Erin, we need to talk. Adam motioned toward her office with an impatient flick of his head, and she followed like a kid trailing after a mama goat. Adam smelled, as he always did, of too-expensive cologne and brandy. Erin supposed that when the entire world knew who she was, she could afford to drench herself in stinky perfume and drink herself into oblivion, but for now, she would just have to breathe in his fumes and suffer.

Adam closed the door to her office and whirled to face her, his violet paisley scarf becoming momentarily airborne. I’ve looked over your sketches for the second half of Kristen’s line, and I have to say, they’re fabulous.

They are? I mean, you like them? Adam didn’t give praise often, and she wanted to be sure she heard right.

Of course. You’re inspired. And you’re also the talk of the town. Adam sank into the leather chair in front of Erin’s desk, and she wondered if he saw the clutter on the surface. The fashion magazines are going nuts, wanting to know all about you. Who you are, where you trained, how Kristen found you—this is going to be excellent PR for the company. I want you to do all the interviews, and be sure to mention Adam Bailey Designs every chance you get.

Erin hid a smile. Adam’s uncharacteristic friendliness now made sense. All right, I can do that.

Oh, and one more thing. Adam reached into the pocket of his silk jacket and pulled out an envelope. This was just delivered. I happened to run into the courier on my way up here.

You happened to?

"Okay, you caught me. I was flirting with the courier. But that doesn’t change the fact that you got a letter."

He handed it over, and Erin knew immediately it wasn’t just a letter. The return address label indicated that it had been sent by Kristen Davenport’s company, True Confessions. Erin’s heart rate sped up as she looked at it.

Well? Adam tapped his foot impatiently on the floor. What is it?

You know, I worked through lunch earlier and I’m starving. I think I’ll head down and grab a bite. Erin tucked the envelope into her purse and walked out of her office, trying not to run. She needed privacy. She knew what was in that envelope, but she didn’t know how much was in that envelope, and she certainly couldn’t open it in front of her boss. He’d get his cut—as per their agreement—but this moment was hers alone, and she was going to insist on that right.

Hey, where are you going? Lauren, her gorgeous Jamaican-born, New York-bred assistant, called out as Erin zoomed through the work area.

Lunch. Be right back.

Erin paid very little attention to anyone she passed as she maneuvered down the hallway and caught the elevator. She needed fresh air, she needed space—she needed a warm cookie.

Seated at the counter of Benny’s Deli, her favorite lunch spot ever since she’d started working at Adam Bailey Designs, Erin finally had the anonymity she felt she needed. No one was peering over her shoulder, trying to get into her private life. She pulled out the envelope and opened it. She gave herself a paper cut as she ripped the seal and wished she’d taken the time to use her butter knife, like her mother used to do when opening mail. She stuck a bit of napkin on her finger to soak up the blood, and then pulled out the document. Her breath caught when she saw the attached check. Her bonus was much bigger than she’d been expecting—and everything over the standard commission was hers to keep. She didn’t have to share with Adam.

Her hands shaking so hard she could barely push the buttons, Erin waited impatiently while the phone rang. Michael’s warm and sexy voice filled the earpiece when he answered.

Hey, honey. What’s going on?

Kristen Davenport just paid me for the first half of her new line, and it’s a lot of money. I mean, a lot.

Michael chuckled. That’s terrific, sweetheart. What do you want to spend it on?

You know.

He laughed. I do. And I think you’re brave and wonderful.

Erin pulled in a deep breath. She’d dreamed of starting her own company for so long. This wasn’t quite enough money and she still had some obligations to fulfill with Adam, but this check would bring her leaps and bounds closer to her goal. Am I crazy?

Absolutely not.

I’m so glad you said that. Erin nodded her thanks as Benny set her lunch in front of her with a wink. He always winked—and he was always a little odd. But he made outrageous food, and she figured she could put up with a little oddity if it meant getting to eat the ambrosia of the gods. So can we talk about it when I get home tonight?

Sure, we can talk about it. But we both know you’re going to do it. This is your dream, Erin—this is your chance.

Erin swallowed against the loud squeal that crept into her throat. She figured it wasn’t very professional to start bouncing up and down in her seat in public.

I’ll see you at home and I’ll listen to everything you say. Unless you start talking about fabric swatches or something like that, in which case I won’t listen at all. But I’ll nod a lot.

Thanks, honey. You’re the best husband I’ve ever had.

I’m the only husband you’ve ever had.

Erin smiled as they exchanged their habitual banter, then hung up so she could dive into her lunch. As always, it was delicious—the pastrami sliced so thin she could probably see through it, piled high on soft rye bread.

Benny stopped by again, wiping his hands on his white apron. How’s the food?

Perfect as always. I don’t know how you do it.

Benny grinned. I just do what my mama taught me. Now, what’s going on with you? You’re looking especially happy about something.

She paused for a minute, trying to decide how much to tell him. Oh, I just got some good news. Nothing I can really share yet.

Are you sure? ‘Cause you can tell Uncle Benny anything.

That was awkward. Erin took a sip of her drink to create a little space between them. I’ll tell you as soon as I can. Uncle Benny? Where had that come from?

Erin finished her sandwich and walked back to her office, a bubble of joy swelling up inside her. She’d thought that marrying Michael would make her the happiest woman on earth—and it did. She’d thought that getting this incredible opportunity to design a collection for Kristen Davenport—arguably the most famous actress alive—would have fulfilled every dream. And it did. But now she realized that all the pieces were falling into place and she really would get to have it all. This was the right thing—she could feel it. She just wished her parents were still alive to see it all come true.

But enough daydreaming—she had work to do. She went back to the office, pulled her auburn hair into a ponytail so it wouldn’t tickle her face, and hunkered down with her sketchbook. She had things nearly finalized for the collection, but one blouse eluded her.

An hour later, she was interrupted in the middle of contemplating sleeve length by a knock at the door.

Delivery. Lauren entered with a huge bouquet of white roses in a vase and set the arrangement on Erin’s desk. Wonder who these are from. She winked, then left Erin to read her card in solitude.

I’ve always fantasized about making out with the CEO of a large corporation. Hurry and start yours, would ya? 

Be mine,

Michael

Erin grinned. Their third date had taken place on Valentine’s Day, and when Michael brought her home, he gave her a box of conversation hearts. She really hated that kind of candy and threw the box in the trash without opening it. The next morning, she got a text from Michael, asking her if she’d eaten the candy and that he wanted her to call him when she was finished. She checked the garbage, only to find that her roommate had taken it out that morning.

Frantic, Erin ran down to the giant Dumpster in the corner of their apartment building parking lot and dug through all the bags until she found that box. When she poured it out on the counter, she saw that every single heart said Be Mine. Michael must have sorted through fifty packages to get that many. She called him immediately, he told her he wanted to be exclusive, and their relationship exploded from there. No Valentine’s Day ever could have been more perfect, and for Michael to remember that today—and white roses, which were her favorite—meant the world.

Erin dug out her phone and sent him a text.

Yours forever and ever and ever.

He hadn’t meant for it to happen. When the woman caught a glimpse of his camera lens peering through her window, she darted out of the house after him. His shoe caught on a root of the bush where he was hiding and he sprawled on the ground, unable to dash away. The next thing he knew, she was screaming and pummeling him with her fists. He’d never come in physical contact with one of his subjects before, and the adrenaline coursing through his body took over. He swung his arm around to knock her away, and her head connected with his camera.

His first worry was that he had damaged the lens. Cursing himself for acting so impulsively, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped smears of blood off the glass. When he was sure he hadn’t broken anything, he took a step to run away and tripped over the woman who lay on the ground. Blood trickled from her forehead where he’d hit her, but it poured out of the back of her head where she’d struck it on the sidewalk when she fell.

For the smallest flicker of a moment, he felt sorry for what he’d done. But then the moment was gone, replaced with clear understanding. If only she had stayed inside, this never would have happened. It was her fault for initiating the conflict—she was stupid to think she could best him.

Her pose as she sprawled out on the ground was artistic in its own way, her blond hair fanned out around her face soaking up the blood and giving her a crimson halo. Her lips, relaxed into a gentle smile, were the same color as her blood. He wondered for a moment what brand of lipstick she used. It was such a perfect match, but she couldn’t have known that when she bought it. Her eyes stared straight ahead, not scared—just accepting. He raised his camera and took a shot, unable to help himself. Beauty in all its forms appealed to him, and she was beautiful in death.

He glanced over his shoulder. The neighborhood was dark and there was no sign that anyone had seen him. Time to head back into the city. Time to find his next work of art. 

Chapter Two 

W

hen Erin finally reached the New Jersey condo she and Michael shared, all she wanted was to climb into a hot shower. But almost as soon as she’d taken off her shoes, she heard a tap on the door. She held back a sigh—she hated unexpected visitors.

Hey, we have new neighbors! Jenna said as soon as Erin answered. Jenna and her husband, Cory, both wore pastel sweaters—ugh, pastel—and they always looked like Barbie and Ken come to life. They also looked like newlyweds, with the cuteness that just beams off people when they’re fresh in love and haven’t yet gotten irritated by their partner’s dirty socks on the floor or hair in the shower drain. Erin wondered if she and Michael had ever been that cute—right then she felt old and overworked. You’ve got to come over and meet them with us.

I do?

Of course! Jenna looked at her impatiently. And Michael too, if he’s here.

Yeah, I’m here. Michael walked into the living room from the bedroom, his hair a little damp and smelling like shampoo. Erin