16. Elena
For six days, the entire theater has been on pins and needles. Warren has been sullen and moody, mostly ignoring me, and Trixie has been strangely nice to me. It’s like since I’ve been getting the lead roles for every play and all the positive reviews mention me by name—Kershner must really like me—I’m the one everyone wants to hang out with. Today, we are having lunch together, sitting at an outdoor café. Everyone is a bit glum at the final confirmation from the NYFD. The fire at Mr. Flemming’s house was ruled accidental.
There’s no one to blame. No one to be angry with or pay for what happened. It’s like there is no sense of justice or ability to get closure. Apparently, his wife was doing laundry and the lint filter caught fire because they hadn’t cleaned it. I have a horrible feeling in my gut about this. I don’t believe this was an accident, and some of the news reports say that too. They are calling it bad luck that has befallen the theater.
“Just ain’t right,” Warren says, jamming his falafel into his mouth for a bite.
“Yeah, it just feels like someone put a hex on us.” Trixie isn’t eating. She says she has no appetite, and I wonder if it has something to do with the fresh bruises on her arms. She seems upset with everyone but me, and I don’t know how to respond to that because up until this point, she’s been mostly jealous and angry with me.
I don’t have anything to say to chime in on this conversation, at least not in a positive way. I want to tell them all about the stalker. There’s no way this is a coincidence. I just don’t know how he made it all happen. How did he organize a mugging, a car accident, and an “accidental” fire too, all while managing to send me hateful, scary mail? That frightens me.
There is a lull in our conversation, and Mindy sighs hard. Without saying a word, she gets up and walks away. Everyone is taking it hard, including the stagehands who don’t ever interact with Mr. Flemming. I think they all know something strange is happening.
“Well, let’s look at the bright side. At least someone is buying the theater so it won’t go under. I heard it was a billionaire whose wife used to be on Broadway back in the day.” Warren speaks with his mouth full, and I try not to cringe. We’ve all heard about the new owner. It’s a shame there is no one left to run the place in Mr. Flemming’s stead, no son or business partner he could have given it to. I don’t know how I feel about that. Too many bad things have happened too closely together to process my emotions over it all.
I called my mom the other day, but I said nothing about the fire. She’d only worry and tell me to come home, but I can’t go back to Ohio. Broadway is my shot at making it big and really doing something with my acting career. There’ve been so many great actresses who started here and went on to the silver screen to become massive stars. It’s what I want more than anything.
“I heard he’s going to change things a lot,” Trixie grumbles as she takes a drink of her juice. I doubt she’s heard that. That is probably her fear kicking in and making her spin a tale. I think we all fear that the new owner will make changes we don’t care for. I, for one, fear being let go. After the news article stating that Monroe and Flemming were watching me and had put me on probation, the whole world is probably waiting for me to fail.
“Do we have to talk about this?” I ask, trying to change the subject. I want to focus on happier things, like our upcoming show, and not how we’ll all carry the weight of this tragedy.
A man approaches the table carrying a pink envelope and a bunch of balloons. The ribbons are wrapped around his fist tightly, the balloons blowing to and fro in the breeze as cars pass. He is wearing a red cap with a florist’s logo on it and a matching red jacket, and he walks directly up to me.
“Ms. Cortez?”
“Uh, yeah?” I glance around nervously at the others, who all stare at me like I’m the center of attention. I’m not celebrity status. I don’t know why this creep keeps sending me letters and flowers. I feel sick to the stomach just thinking of what this one might say. It’s the same damn pink envelope, and I know the stalker sent it.
“These are for you, courtesy of Nonni’s Flowers and Gifts. Your secret admirer would like you to know he sends his condolences.” The man sets the balloon weight on the table, which I previously did not see, and hands me the card. “For you.”
The old Elena, the one fresh off the bus to New York City, the one who grew up in a small town in Ohio, barely a blip on the map… she’d be blushing and embarrassed to receive such attention.
But this Elena is rattled. I’m shaken to my core. The man isn’t just sending letters in the mail. This envelope has my name written on it in one word. There is no address, no postmark. He’s stalked me and knows where I am right now. I look around sharply as the delivery boy walks away and feel a cold chill. He is probably watching me.
“What’s wrong?” Trixie asks, swatting at a balloon that flies in her face as a car rushes past.
Warren scowls. “Yeah, you look pissed or terrified. You gotta work on that RBF, honey. Be thankful for the gifts you get. One day, your adoring fans will forget you.” I don’t appreciate his unsolicited advice any more than I appreciate this letter. I want to trash it and walk away, show that sick fuck what I really think of him. But will that anger him? Enrage him? Will he come after me for trashing his gift?
Trixie moves the balloons across the table toward Schrader, who pushes them toward Celia. “War, I think something’s actually wrong. Elena, what’s wrong?” Her face shows genuine concern, and I’m shocked that she even cares. Maybe the bad happenstances have given her a new perspective or something.
I tremble and bite my lip. I don’t even want to open this letter. Everything about this is terrifying. Someone is harming people around me to get to me, and I can’t tell if they’re trying to help me succeed, scare me into quitting, or wishing me dead. I hand the envelope to Trixie and cover my face, then listen as she tears the envelope open and pulls the letter out.
“Oh, shit, babe…” She sounds afraid too. “War, read this.”
I lower my hands and fold them in my lap and watch in horror as Warren folds open the letter and the others lean in to see.
Elena, I’m so happy things are working out this way. That horrible man had it in for you and now he’s gone. That’s a good thing because now your career will take off and I will get to enjoy you all the more. Shame I didn’t think of it sooner. XOXO.
He lays it down on the table, and Schrader snatches it up, and he and Celia pore over it.
“How long have you been getting letters like this?” Trixie is suddenly all concerned about me, and I don’t even care that she used to hate me. I am one of the gang now. They are accepting me. And for once, Warren isn’t being hyper controlling.
“Months. This is like the fifth or sixth letter, maybe, I’m not sure.” My body feels so tense, it might snap like a rubber band if pushed. Warren scowls at me and purses his lips. He’s not happy about this, and I wonder if he thinks he should have been protecting me better.
“You told anyone?” he asks, and I nod.
“I told Flemming and the director. I think this guy is stalking me. I am so scared. I feel like he’s the one making all this bad stuff happen. Like he had Mr. Monroe mugged and Nina killed. And I don’t think the fire was an accident. Guys, I think the stalker did all of it.” Shaking, I take the letter back as Celia hands it to me, though I’d rather not have it. “And I think he knows I’m here right now. I think he’s watching me.”
Warren starts to chuckle and then bursts into laughter, which seems like an odd reaction. Trixie gives him a cross look and Schrader seems annoyed. I don’t understand why he’s laughing.
“You should be checkin’ out that boyfriend of yours. That’s what you ought to do.” Warren calms himself and rearranges the trash on his plate.
“Liam? Why him?” Warren has had it out for Liam for so long now. Every time he comes to visit me, Warren has a nasty comment or gives him angry glares. It’s no secret that Warren doesn’t like him.
“Not Liam—Dominic.” The name makes my blood run cold as Warren says it. “Dominic Salvatore. He’s the son of Luciantonio Salvatore, the Mob boss. He’s the Italian Don, honey. Dominic is playing you.”
“No…” I mumble, and I shake my head. It’s not true. Liam isn’t playing me. This is made up by Warren to scare me or upset me. Nothing more than a lie.
“It’s true. You need to watch your back. It’s likely these things are happening all around you because he’s involved. You should be scared.” Warren stands and picks up his tray, and looking down at me, he says, “I tried to warn you.”
Trixie takes my hand as Warren leaves and pats it. “If I were you, I’d ditch the balloons and card. You need to tell the police.”
One by one, all the others leave, following the path Warren took back toward the theater. It’s not time to go back yet, but I don’t want to sit on this street corner and wait to be attacked by some psycho with a thirst for blood. I leave the card, the balloons, and my trash on the table for the busboy and stand.
Warren can’t be right.
Liam is sweet and funny and protective. He isn’t dangerous except for his mild temper issue. He’s wealthy, but he earns his money the right way, with his little coffee shop. I can’t really believe that he would lie to me the whole time and deceive me that way, but I can’t really explain how Warren knew the name Dominic if it isn’t true. And how did that same name get onto an inscription on a watch on Liam’s nightstand if it isn’t true?
My mind races, and I want to go home to be with my Mom now. But I have a show to do, and without Nina, there’s no one to perform.
Maybe coming to New York was the worst decision of my life. Maybe the Midwest is really where I belong. Bad things are happening to good people, and I want no part of it. And I definitely want no part of the Italian Mob.
Thanks, Warren, for giving me that many more nightmares.