Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
DAPHNE
It was a stupid idea to wear mascara to my first therapy session. I thought therapy would be helpful, but damn, I didn’t think it would be a tearfest from start to finish. I’m going to need a Gatorade on the way home. I’m dehydrated from crying so much.
I fight the urge to hug Stacey, a sweet woman with salt-and-pepper hair swept into a chignon.
Her maroon cardigan nearly skims the floor as she stands up and offers me a friendly smile.
“You did well today, Daphne. The first time someone attends therapy can be difficult, but I hope you’ll continue to see me. ”
I nod as I toss my handful of used tissues into the basket beside her desk.
“I’ll be back next week,” I promise. Even though we only skimmed the list of topics I had bullet-pointed in my brain, the release from venting about Mom’s criticism of my weight left me feeling lighter.
I could talk openly with so few people, and even then, I used to worry that I was being a bother—like my presence was annoying to others.
Maybe that’s why I don’t have many friends.
Maybe that’s something I should bring up next week.
I’d like friends—real ones, not political alliances and connections I made through networking.
I’ve always wanted a girlfriend I could chill on the couch with, wearing an avocado face mask while we eat popcorn and raw cookie dough during a Netflix marathon.
Tessa comes to mind. Maybe I should invite her to go shopping or to a movie or something. What do female friends even do in their twenties besides brunch and happy hour? That’s all I see in movies.
“You can take your water with you if you’d like.” Stacey nods towards the half-drunk bottle of water on the table, and I dash over to grab it.
“Sorry, I forgot about that.”
“It’s alright, Daphne. Drink some more if you can.”
“I will.” I shut the door behind me as I leave.
A couple sits on opposite ends of a couch, but with identical gold wedding bands. Both skim through magazines, and the tension between them is so toxic that I could choke.
Leaving the office, I head to the elevator.
“Hold the door,” a voice echoes down the hallway.
I press my hand against the sliding elevator doors and keep them open.
A man in his thirties dashes into the elevator and beams a grateful smile at me, a dimple hollowed in his left cheek.
“Thank you.” His cologne follows him inside, the smell of something sharp and smoky like tobacco.
I catch a glimpse of his hoodie before he steps behind me and into the far corner of the elevator.
His black hoodie has the white outline of the American flag, but instead of strips, they’re rifles.
Bullets replace the stars on the flag. Someone loves the Second Amendment.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a responsible gun owner, but wearing my political beliefs on my clothing seems narrow-minded and, honestly, stupid. Tell me you easily fall for propaganda without telling me you easily fall for propaganda.
The moment the door shut, my gut swirls with alarm. Something’s wrong. I’ve learned to trust my gut over the years—and it’s telling me to run.
But I’m stuck in an elevator with a stranger, and I pressed the lobby button before he got on. If I get off a random floor now, it’s going to look suspicious as fuck.
“Nice weather today, isn’t it?” he asks with a friendliness in his voice. His cologne intensifies as he steps toward me. Even though this cologne smells divine, my stomach’s churning like smelling old, raw chicken.
“Yes,” I say. “I have lunch reservations outside today. I’m glad, otherwise my boyfriend might have to cancel.”
I don’t have lunch plans with Tristan, and I don’t have lunch plans, but pointing out that I have a boyfriend may make him back off. I’ve thought about wearing a fake wedding ring to deter some guys. It’s not foolproof, but it deters the good guys, leaving me with only the assholes to handle.
Fifth floor. Come on, hurry up.
“You have a boyfriend?”
I face this guy, staring him square in the eye and round my shoulders, not backing down. “Yes. Why do you care?”
He shrugs. “I’m surprised. I would have thought the tabloids would’ve caught onto the fact that the President’s daughter is dating. I thought you’d still be grieving Brent Sokolov after all.”
The doors part, and it’s like I can breathe again as I step out of the coffin-like box.
It shouldn’t worry me that he knows who I am. I’ve had my pictures posted on every international news outlet. But the way he said it slithers through my stomach like a rattlesnake, vibrations shaking like a warning.
I remain silent as I walk out of the lobby and into the blazing mid-August sun.
I’d planned on stopping at two bookstores Downtown and in the Inner Harbor. It gives me a chance to film a vlog. I’ve been binge-reading and filming nonstop this last week, and I’ve got solid momentum going for me.
Awareness pricks the back of my neck like a mosquito. I glance over my shoulder and find the man in the elevator a block behind me. His black hood is up, but I recognize the American flag design from here.
Shit.
Adrenaline ices my stomach, and I don’t know what to do. I told Tristan I’d be on my own today—and that now feels like an incredibly stupid decision.
I tug my phone from my purse and call him.
“Hey, Princess.”
“I’m being followed,” I hiss into the phone, and I glance back over my shoulder.
The man’s gotten closer because my short legs will only take me so fast unless I run, which will look sus as hell.
I dart across the street and continue walking, grateful that there’s enough traffic going by that we’re not fully alone.
“I’ll come get you.” Urgency thickens Tristan’s voice, and his worry doubles mine. If he’s worried, this is bad. “I’m ten minutes away at the hospital. Is there a store you can go into?”
I enter a shop that’s open for lunch. “Yeah, I’m at Ruby Garden now. It’s a Chinese restaurant.”
“Order one sweet and sour chicken, one beef lo mein, and one of whatever you eat so you don’t look suspicious. Tell me if he follows you inside.”
I go up to the counter hidden behind bulletproof glass and place an order. As I take my change, my stalker walks in behind me. I see him in the glass’s reflection, and he innocently looks up at the faded menu like he’s deciding what to order.
“Yes,” is all I say into the phone as I walk to the other end of the restaurant. I sit at the one table with a plastic lawn chair and keep my gaze outside.
“Listen to me carefully,” Tristan says. From the window’s reflection, my stalker leans against the wall and stares down at his boots. He cracks open a can of Pepsi and takes a sip.
“When the food is ready, order an Uber. I’ll be double-parked outside with my blinkers on. Get in the back seat of my car like I’m your Uber, and I’ll drive you out of there.”
“Okay. But why the hos—?”
He cuts me off. “I’m visiting Tuck on his lunchbreak, but I’m leaving right now to come and get you. I’ll be in his car, a black Volvo. Tuck’s got a thing for car safety.” There’s a long pause. “Do you want me to stay on the line until the food’s done?”
“Please,” is all I say.
“I’m pulling out of the parking lot now. Let me know if he does anything or if anyone else comes in with him.”
“Alright.” My stomach knots with unease as I hear the soft hum of the engine through the phone.
“You know, Princess, I’m proud of you for going to therapy today. How was your first session?”
“It was good.” I’m no therapist, but I know he’s trying to distract me from the real danger that’s feet away from me. What if this guy has a knife or a gun? Wouldn’t he have used it against me by now if he did?
“Tell me about it,” Tristan encourages.
“It went by fast,” I say. “An hour sounds like a long time, but once you start talking, it’s like you can’t get out everything you want to say, so you end up rambling. Lunch is a good idea. I should eat something anyway.”
“Google says I’m four minutes away.”
“Good.”
A bell rings behind the counter, and the elderly Chinese woman slides the bulletproof glass panel aside. “Lunch specials,” she calls out and pushes my bag onto the counter before sliding the glass back in place.
“I’ll call you back,” I say as I stand up. “My lunch is ready.”
“Two minutes. Order an Uber now and stay in the restaurant until you see me.”
I hang up, fighting the words tripping on the edge of my tongue, things I want to say in case this goes badly, and I don’t see him again. I pick up the white plastic bag in one hand and loop it around my forearm. I go back to the table and type to order an Uber.
A black sedan stops right in the middle of the lane closest to the shop and flicks its hazard lights on.
I dash outside without looking back, grab onto the back seat handle, and open it. I launch myself into the car and flick the door’s lock closed.
Through the rear windshield, my stalker makes his way around the back of the car like he’s supposed to get in with me. Tristan drives off. The man chases after us for a few feet before giving up.
“Are you alright?” Tristan asks, watching me in his rearview mirror for a few seconds before tearing his eyes back on the road.
“No,” I admit. “Not even a little bit.”
Was that the guy who tried to shoot me? Who left that package for me?
If it’s the same guy, then how does he know I’m in Maryland?