Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
PHIL
Vivi’s warm body is a tether to reality that I desperately need.
The soft, soothing noise in my ears blocks out the rest of the world, and as the minutes pass, my heartbeat paces itself.
I’m still anxious as fuck, and I don’t think I’ll be talking again today, but I can think again.
I no longer feel like the world is going to crush me.
I lift my face from Vivi’s fur, and she takes advantage of the opportunity to lick me, her big eyes fixed on mine. I rub her ears, then make myself take a breath and glance up.
Harold is curled up on the couch beside me, close but not touching in any way. His gaze is on me, and when he sees me look at him, a relieved smile breaks over his face. He doesn’t say anything, though, just offers me a mug. I think I remember that mug from before.
God, my mouth is dry. I reach for it, trying to muster a smile of thanks, but I don’t know if I manage it. He doesn’t look like he cares, just watches me sip the warm tea. That gives me the strength I need to look around.
Griff is only a few feet away, talking to Calla, Blaise—who has his arm around Calla—and a man I don’t know.
Griff’s mostly in profile but must still catch sight of my movement, because he shoots a quick look in my direction and raises a brow as though to ask if I need anything.
This time, I manage to move my head a little, just enough to show him no, and he keeps talking to the man…
who also looks at me, but I’m trying not to notice that.
Butch and Xera are curled up together in one of the armchairs, and when they notice that I’m… back…, Butch gets up and comes to sit beside me where Griff was before. She’s careful not to touch me, but I’m starting to feel a little more in control. I could probably handle a touch.
Maybe.
Polly’s pacing over by the door to the kitchen, his phone to his ear, and Jordan’s standing near him, clearly listening in. I’m not sure how much time has passed since I opened the box, but it’s been a while. Maybe even a couple of hours.
My hand’s a little shaky when I reach up to tap the side of the headphones, stopping the audio. The sounds of the room are still muted, giving me the buffer I need, but I can hear voices now, albeit muffled.
“…you’re sure about that?” It’s the stranger talking. He’s got a little notebook, and it occurs to me that he’s probably with the police.
“Positive,” Calla says. “I got back from the market at about ten, and there was nothing at the door.”
“Hm.” He writes something down. “What time did you leave again?”
Calla looks at Griff. “We were supposed to be here by one, but we were running late…. Maybe twelve fifty? I stopped noticing exactly how late we were once it hit twelve forty.”
“And nobody came or went from the apartment in between?”
“No,” Griff confirms. “Calla’s the only one who went out this morning.”
“Are you friendly with your neighbors?”
Calla’s lip trembles. “Do you really think one of them could have done this?”
“I don’t know. I only meant, is there someone in particular who might have noticed the package being delivered?”
“Oh. Uh… maybe? It’s Saturday, so more of them would have been home than usual. Most of them are nice enough, so I think they’d be willing to help.”
He’s still writing, but then he stops. “You said you only touched the outside of the box?”
“Yes.” Calla nods. “I picked it up from the floor. Then when I pulled it out of my bag and saw it was for Phil, I brought it to him. I didn’t touch it after that.”
“It looks like there might be a note under the doll,” Blaise adds, “but none of us checked. We figured that was your job.”
“Good.” The man—detective?—turns toward the coffee table. “That definitely is my job. Could you all move back, please? I’d ask you to go into another room, but I don’t like my chances.”
“If we have to, I guess we could,” Xera offers reluctantly, but the detective shakes his head.
“You’ve been in here with the box until now. Just stand back, and no photos or comments.”
My friends murmur agreement, and Butch gets up and moves out of the way as Griff comes to stand close to me—close enough that I can press my ankle to his. The touch wins me a glance and a warm, if worried, smile. Polly and Jordan move closer, their call done.
The detective leans down to rummage in a backpack at his feet, pulling out a pair of disposable gloves and a handful of ziplock bags. Then, as he snaps on the gloves, he crouches beside the coffee table and peers at the box.
To my surprise, he doesn’t immediately take the doll out. First he takes photos from multiple angles, then he closes the flaps and takes more photos. Then he carefully pokes around in the box without removing anything.
“There’s definitely a note,” he reports. “I can’t see it clearly yet.” He glances toward me and sees that I’m watching. “Mr. Marchand, can you hear me? If you can, you might want to look away for a moment.”
Why…? Oh. He thinks seeing the doll and knife might upset me. That’s… kind. I guess someone had to explain to him why I’m just sitting here instead of talking to him.
Anxiety surges again, driven by shame and the stupid feeling that I should be able to handle this better. Vivi nuzzles under my chin, though, and I concentrate on that and my breaths. I’m okay. “Should” is a dirty word. I’m okay.
I shake my head slightly, letting him know he can go ahead.
His lips tighten like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he reaches into the box with one hand and pulls out the knife.
In his hand, it doesn’t seem as big as I remember.
It looks like a paring knife, the kind of thing a million people have in their kitchens.
He takes some photos of it, then puts it into one of the bags.
Next out of the box is the doll, and just the sight of my smiling face on it makes me slam my eyes shut in a desperate attempt to keep panic at bay. I don’t need to see it again. Instead, I focus on my breathing and let my friends’ voices roll over me.
“What are those red smears?” Blaise asks sharply.
“I can’t say for sure, but I doubt it’s blood, if that’s what you’re thinking. The lab will confirm, but my guess is paint, or maybe ketchup.” That’s the detective, his voice steady and calm.
His words make me a little angry. Someone went to the effort of smearing paint or ketchup on a doll? That means they truly planned this. It wasn’t an act of emotional impulse.
“I don’t suppose that’s some kind of antique doll that’s going to be easy to trace to an owner?” Butch asks hopefully.
“Sorry. It’s definitely not an antique, according to this tag that says Made in China. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen something like it at the dollar store.”
“Great,” Harold mutters.
There are some rustling sounds, and then the detective sighs. “Has Mr. Marchand been receiving threatening letters?”
“What?” The question comes from so many throats, it seems to echo through the room.
My eyes pop open. The detective is holding a square of white paper. There’s a faint red smear at one corner, and I remind myself it’s probably paint.
“The way this note is worded gives the impression that this person has made contact before.”
“He never said anything, and he would have told me,” Calla declares. She looks around wildly. “Wouldn’t he?”
“He would,” Griff says. “And me, I think.” He kneels beside me. “Phil? Just nod or shake your head.”
I shake my head, indignance rising to mix with my anxiety and anger.
Today’s a whole cocktail of emotions, but I’m not happy that my best friend and my boyfriend think I’d keep something like that from them.
I fumble in my pocket for my phone, and still holding Vivi close with one arm, tap out a reply.
No threats. I tell you everything!
I narrow my eyes at Calla so she knows I mean her, though nowadays it applies to Griff as well. He reads my message aloud, and tears start to track down Calla’s face.
“I know, but… who would do this? I don’t understand.”
Blaise pulls her a little closer, tightening his arm around her. “None of us do.”
“Mr. Marchand, I’m Detective Tyrone Spears with the LAPD,” he says directly to me, his voice low and steady. “I’m sorry this has happened to you, and I promise to do everything I can to resolve this situation.”
I muster a weak smile, not much more than a twitch of my mouth, and type.
Thank you. Call me Phil.
I hate being called Mr. Marchand. It makes me think of my dad, and that’s not going to settle my anxiety.
Griff relays my comment, and Detective Spears nods. “Phil, then. Could I confirm that you haven’t received any threatening letters, emails, or messages?”
I shake my head.
“Okay. What about verbal threats? Has anyone said anything—”
He stops because I’m shaking my head again.
“What about fan mail?”
I’m still shaking my head, but stop abruptly as his question sinks in. Huh?
“Fan mail?” Polly repeats. “What do you mean?”
Spears is still looking at me. “Has anyone sent you anything to say they admire you or your work? Stalkers rarely start out with threats and aggression. It’s possible this person has been escalating over time.”
My brain is struggling to process that. I don’t really have fans. Not yet, anyway. That’s the dream, that one day people will be fans of my work, but for now, I have clients and a desire for the fashion media to notice me.
Griff sucks in a breath. “There was that email you told me about. Someone who said they normally didn’t like designs like yours, but they weren’t too bad? Or something like that.”
I blink at him. Maybe… yes?
“What email?” Calla asks. “When was this?”
The memory clicks into place, and I open my email app to search for it. I don’t usually keep unimportant emails, so I’ve probably deleted it, but I’m sure I sent a reply. The email thread is probably in my Sent items.
It takes a minute of scrolling back and forth, but finally I find it and hold out my phone. Calla reaches for it, then hesitates and lets Spears take it instead.
His eyes move as he reads it, and then he glances up at me. “Can I forward this to myself?”
I nod, and when he hands me back my phone a moment later, I tap out a message and show Griff.
“She sent you a card as well?”
“Do you still have it?” Spears asks sharply, and I nod again and type a reply.
“Kyle has it,” Griff reads, then tells Spears, “He’s the receptionist at Phallacy. Do you remember what the card said, Phil?”
I shake my head.
Another backhanded compliment. Kyle couldn’t believe how shady it was.
“I’ll need Kyle’s details,” Spears says. “Though I can probably wait to interview him until Monday. Ms. Gardner, would you be able to let me into the office to look for this card? I’d prefer to take it into evidence sooner than later.”
“Of course,” Calla says, a little shakily, and I feel a stab of guilt that she’s getting stuck with this. I want to object, to insist I’ll go instead, but I… can’t. I’m honestly on the verge of a shutdown just sitting here talking about this whole mess.
I can’t believe those annoying but harmless messages were from someone who’d do this.
“I’ll come with you,” Polly offers, a note in his voice making it clear he won’t accept an argument, and Calla gives him a grateful grimace.
Spears slides the note into a bag, and then puts the empty box into another one.
He peels off his gloves next, saying, “We’ll go do that now, if it’s okay with you, and then I’d like to visit your building and see if any of your neighbors saw anything this morning.
” He hesitates. “Will you be staying at your apartment—”
“No.”
It’s a chorus of voices, and if I wasn’t swamped with bad adrenaline and fear, I’d smile.