Chapter 19
Aimee
I hadn't even heard from the stalker since the snake thing. Maybe he'd given up.
Desperate for something to do with my hands, I picked up my phone, scrolling through my camera roll before selecting some old b-roll footage from a previous podcast recording session.
With a few taps, I uploaded it to my Instagram, adding a little teaser in the caption for the upcoming episode.
One I still needed to finish recording. “At least pretend you’re working.
” I pushed away from the counter and reached for my laptop, frowning down at a small yellow Post-it note stuck to the back of it.
You can’t let this asshole silence your voice.
Troy’s neat handwriting slashed across the note, framed by one of Rhett’s little cartoons, this one of me with a superhero cape on.
Smiling, I grabbed my recording equipment and headed for Rhett’s closet—my makeshift studio where the clothes dampened the echo and the kittens couldn’t interrupt.
I settled into the chair I’d dragged in, balancing my laptop on the small table and setting up my microphone. Three listener emails to respond to—I could manage that. The thought gave me a surge of confidence as I plugged in my headphones.
“Welcome back to The Aimee Position.” I slipped into my podcast persona like a comfortable sweater. “Today we’re answering some listener questions about—”
Nothing. My voice wasn’t registering. I checked the connections on the back of the microphone, and that’s when I saw it—tiny tooth marks on my microphone cord, the wires exposed where someone had gnawed through the plastic.
“Goddamnit, Cheeto!” I tossed my headphones onto the table. An orange blur darted between the hanging clothes, purring as he rubbed against my ankles. “Don’t play cute with me, you little monster. This is a hundred-dollar cable.”
Cheeto blinked up at me with those big green eyes, completely unrepentant.
“You’re lucky you’re adorable,” I said, scooping him up and pressing my face into his soft fur. He squirmed and I set him down, watching as he bounded out of the closet, probably to find more expensive electronics to destroy.
I stared at the chewed cord. I had a spare in my apartment—across the hall. My stomach tightened at the thought. The stalker was still out there. Six feet of hallway had never felt so exposed.
“This is ridiculous.” I squared my shoulders. “It’s broad daylight. You’re going across the hall to your own apartment for two minutes. Nothing is going to happen.”
I told myself that going across the hall would be the healthiest thing for me. Fear responses after trauma are normal, but avoiding them only reinforces the anxiety. This would be a small, controlled exposure to my fear. Perfect for rebuilding my confidence.
It was the exact advice I’d give my listeners.
I grabbed my keys from the hook by the door, took a deep breath, and turned the deadbolt. The click sounded obscenely loud in the quiet apartment. My hand trembled on the doorknob.
“Six feet, grab the cord, sprint back. Thirty seconds, tops.”
I pulled open the door and froze. A medium-sized cardboard box sat in front of my apartment, the address label handwritten.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I couldn’t breathe.
Images flooded my mind—snakes, spiders, worse things slithering inside, waiting.
“No.” I backed into the loft, slamming the door and twisting the deadbolt with shaking hands.
“Nope. Not happening.” I pressed my back against the door, trying to slow my breathing.
My rational mind tried to break through the panic. It could be anything—shoes I’d ordered during a late-night online shopping spree, podcast equipment, a gift from Ryker. The handwriting looked ordinary enough.
But so had the snake box.
I stood paralyzed, my keys digging into my palm where I’d clenched my fist around them. What would Troy do? What would Rhett tell me? Their voices filled my head: Don’t be a hero, Aims. Call for backup.
I slid down against the door until I hit the floor, my heart hammering. Olive appeared from wherever she’d been napping, chirping as she padded over to investigate my distress.
“I’m fine.” I wasn’t. “Just your human mom having a completely rational freakout over a cardboard box.”
Olive tilted her head.
“Fuck. What would I tell a listener to do right now?”
The answer came instantly: ask for help. It doesn’t make you weak; it makes you smart.
I dug through my purse with trembling hands, finding my phone and pulling up Detective Joyce’s number. Three weeks ago, I wouldn’t have even had a detective’s direct line in my contacts. Now it was practically on speed dial.
She answered on the second ring, and the words spilled out before I could stop them. “There’s a package in front of my apartment. I’m staying across the hall at my—at my friends’ place. The handwriting looks like the snake box.”
“Don’t touch it.” Her tone made it clear she was serious. “We’ll be there in twenty with Lu. Sit tight. Where are you right now?”
“In the apartment across the hall.”
“Good. Stay there, lock and bolt the doors. Sit tight.”
After we hung up, I opened the group chat with the guys, debating how much I should tell them. They needed the truth.
Hey guys, hope work is going well.
Just wanted to let you know there’s a package outside my apartment door. Called Detective Joyce. I’m safe in your place. Don’t panic. Police are on their way.
I added a heart emoji, deleted it before hitting send. My therapist would have a field day with that moment of emotional constipation.
Cheeto and Olive both climbed into my lap, purring as I stroked their soft fur. They were getting bigger already, less kitten-like with each passing day.
“You guys are terrible attack cats,” I said, scratching under Cheeto’s chin as he stretched luxuriously. “I guess we can call you emotional support pets, though.”
Cheeto responded by rolling onto his back, exposing his belly and demanding scratches.
“I know. You’re right. It’s okay to trust people sometimes. To need them.” I pulled out my phone and added another text:
Miss you both. Be safe at work.
This time, I left the heart emoji.
The sharp rap on the door made me jump, even though I’d been expecting it.
“Coming! Just a second!” I gathered the kittens from my lap, ignoring Cheeto’s squirming protest as I carried them to Rhett’s bedroom and deposited them on his unmade bed, then closed the door, not wanting them to slip out.
I took a deep breath, tried to compose myself into Professional Podcast Host Aimee instead of Terrified Stalker Target Aimee, and went to let in the detectives.
Detective Joyce was the very essence of a no-nonsense policewoman, with short-cropped silver hair, sharp eyes that missed nothing, and a practical pantsuit—but her expression softened when she saw me. “You doing okay, Hale?”
“Fine.” I avoided her eyes as I stepped back to let her and Detective Lu into the apartment. Lu nodded at me, already pulling on latex gloves. “It’s probably just shoes or something. I feel stupid calling you guys out for this.”
Joyce’s jaw set. “Better cautious than sorry. Lu, radio the bomb squad. Let them know we’ve got a suspicious package matching handwriting from a previous case.”
My stomach dropped. “Bomb squad? You think—”
“Standard protocol.” Joyce cut me off, but her eyes were kind. “Let’s get some officers to clear the floor, just to be safe.”
The next hour passed in a blur of controlled chaos—uniformed officers knocking on doors, evacuating neighbors, securing the hallway. I waited with some neighbors in the lobby, arms wrapped around myself as I tried not to look suspicious.
When two technicians in heavy protective gear arrived to examine the package, I tried to tell myself I’d done the right thing.
It felt ridiculous—all this fuss over a harmless delivery.
But then I remembered the snakes and the cold weight of fear as they slithered across my floor, and I knew I’d done the right thing.
A few hours later, the package and the bomb squad were gone and I was back in Rhett and Troy’s apartment. Detective Joyce joined me in the kitchen while her partner coordinated with the techs. “The package had a device in it. It’s been sent to the lab for testing.”
My heart dropped. “Dangerous?”
She hesitated. “Let’s wait until we have conclusive answers from the lab. What I can tell you is that it appeared to be a rudimentary device.”
“So it’s definitely from him? No, don’t answer. Conclusive answers, I get it.”
She nodded. “It’s best not to make assumptions until we have all of the evidence. Is that a camera?” She pointed to the one Rhett had mounted on the peephole.
“Yeah. Rhett angled it to capture my whole door and the hallway.”
We were discussing giving her access to the saved footage when the apartment door burst open. I spun around, heart in my throat, to see Troy standing there, still in his uniform pants and navy fire department t-shirt, his face tight with worry.
“Aims?” His dark eyes found mine, scanning me for injury or distress.
Something inside me that had been holding tight to control since I’d first seen that package broke. Before I knew it, I was crossing the room and throwing myself into his arms, burying my face against his chest as a sob tore free from my throat.
“Hey, hey.” His strong arms encircled me, one hand cradling the back of my head. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
I clutched his shirt, breathing in his familiar scent—subtle cologne, laundry detergent, and faint smoke that seemed permanently embedded in his skin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your training. I just—”
“Don’t apologize,” he cut me off gently, his lips pressing against my head. “I would have come sooner, but I didn’t see your text. We were pretty much done anyway, but I told the new chief it was a family emergency.”
Family. The word resonated in my chest, warm and terrifying.
“Lieutenant Matthews,” Detective Joyce greeted him with a nod. “I was about to head out.”
Troy nodded, his hand moving in soothing circles against my back. “What can we do?”
“Stay put for now. We’ll be in touch once we know more.” Joyce glanced at me with kindness. “You did the right thing, Ms. Hale. Don’t second-guess yourself.”
After the detectives left, the apartment felt eerily quiet. Troy led me to the couch, settling me against his side with a soft throw blanket over us. Olive and Cheeto, freed from their bedroom confinement, promptly claimed our laps, purring contentedly as if nothing unusual had happened.
“Rhett’s gonna be pissed he missed the excitement,” Troy said, gently combing his fingers through my hair. “Should we call him?”
I nodded, desperate to hear Rhett’s voice and make sure he wasn’t too worried.
Troy put the call on speaker, and Rhett answered on the first ring. “Tell me everything’s okay,” he demanded. “Tell me you’re both fine.”
“We’re fine,” Troy and I said, and somehow that made me laugh, a slightly hysterical sound that Rhett immediately picked up on.
“Aims? Talk to me, baby.”
I took a shaky breath. “There was a package. I freaked out. The bomb squad came. It’s fine.”
“Fuck,” Rhett breathed. “I should’ve called out today. I’m coming home as soon as my shift ends.”
“I’m fine. The detectives took the package. It’s over.” I paused, surprised to realize I meant it. “I’m really okay. You don’t have anyone to cover your shift, and you know Troy will take care of me.” He was quiet for a moment, then blew out a breath. “Yeah. He will.”
We talked for a few more minutes, filling Rhett in on the details, his voice calming as he confirmed we were safe. When we hung up, I melted back against Troy’s chest, watching Cheeto bat at the throw blanket fringe.
“It’s okay to need people sometimes, Aimee.”
I closed my eyes, letting his words sink in, and snuggled closer, the weight of his big body comforting against mine.