21. Chapter 21
LONDYN
SUNLIGHT STILL CLINGS TO MY skin. What a wonderful afternoon. Best of all, I had zero anxiety since I knew Sean and Mike were there the entire time.
I place my new sugar-cookie-scented candle on a shelf with the others. Honestly, it's so crowded that Lavender Fields may need to go.
My new candle gets one last sniff and then I pull the book I bought from its paper bag.
I set it on the coffee table. It's a slim, manageable volume of vignettes from trauma survivors.
The cover shows a simple image of hands cupped together, holding light.
I picked it because it's short enough that I might actually finish it before our next book club, and because it's from people like me.
I wonder what Sean will think of it.
The sharp knock at my door sends my heart racing, even though I know who it is. Three deliberate taps. Sean.
I cross to the door and my steps are lighter than they've been in days. When I open the door, my smile is already a wide grin that must show every single tooth in my skull.
But all this joy coursing through me falters when I see Sean's severe expression; storm clouds are gathered in each pupil.
"Hi," I say after a thick swallow. I've never seen him this grim.
"Can I come in?"
I step aside. As he enters, his eyes sweep my apartment like he's looking for someone; it adds to the growing vortex of dread in my stomach.
The door clicks shut behind him and even the click, click, click of all my locks don't bring any relief. "Everything okay?" I ask.
Sean doesn't sit, doesn't soften. He stands in the center of my living room like a statue carved from tension. "You should sit down," he says.
The dread is swallowing half my body now. No one says 'sit down' before good news.
I perch on the edge of the couch and fold my hands in my lap. Sean remains standing, which creates a power dynamic I don't like; I feel small under his gaze.
"What's going on? You're worrying me."
He exhales, shoulders dropping as if he finally realizes how he appears. He joins me on the couch. "Sorry. I don't want to dance around this, so I'll just say it. There is someone following you."
The worry morphs into that first jolt of panic, the one that always cracks through me like someone is trying to restart my heart. My brain scrambles to process, to deny, to explain away.
I don't think Sean is a liar, but I have to ask, "You're sure?"
"Yeah. We spotted two men that were too similar to each other.
Similar build and clothing. Navy baseball caps.
They were coordinating and taking turns following you.
When one left the area, the other appeared.
It wasn't random. Mike and I both agree it was organized surveillance.
One of them spotted me and knows I'm your security. "
The man in the baseball cap. I sensed it. I knew it.
But there's two?
Oh no. What if they're the same men who threatened me in Cali?
I press my palms flat against my thighs, seeking something solid to ground me as I slip into memories from my old apartment.
I was asleep, or trying to sleep. After The Director's assault, I'd barricaded myself in my apartment, trying to piece myself back together enough to make an appearance on set. My job meant the world to me, and I couldn't lose it. Even if it meant seeing him .
I had no idea how they entered so soundlessly. They were two hulking silhouettes in the dark, grabbing me and covering my mouth before I fully woke up.
One of them yanked me off the bed. My legs were tangled in the sheets, so they were pulled along with me as the man lifted me and then slammed me against the wall. The other man pressed an elbow into my chest, holding me in place. I gasped and wheezed through gritted teeth.
"Told anyone about Alan Miller's party?" the first one snarled.
I shook my head furiously, desperate to make them believe me. I hadn't seen anyone for over a week.
A punch to my stomach knocked the air from my lungs. Pain exploded from all the healing cuts from The Director's knife. I doubled over and collapsed against the man who restrained me.
"Don't lie," he growled, shaking me until my teeth rattled.
"I swear… I didn't…"
"Then you're gonna keep your mouth shut," one of them said. I'd lost track of who was speaking because I was shaking so much.
A fist drove into me again, making stars burst behind my eyes. Something cold and hard pressed against my temple: a gun barrel.
"You're a cunt actress and no one will believe you."
I nodded.
"Say it."
"No one… no one…" I couldn't get the words out through the sobs and violent trembling.
One of them struck me in the face and my head hit the wall. Pain rippled through my skull. The gun barrel moved to the middle of my forehead.
Summoning every bit of strength, I kept myself together long enough to say what they wanted. "No one will believe me," I finally whispered.
"Pack your shit and leave the state by Friday. You have four days. Don't fly. Don't take a train or bus or go anywhere too populated. Rent a vehicle. Make sure no one recognizes you. You're a nobody now."
Another blow and I hit the floor this time, curling into a ball and trying not to shake apart.
They loomed over me. "Never come back. If you're still here Friday, and if you ever open your fucking mouth, you'll get locked in a room again and you won't get out."
I squeezed my eyes shut and wished myself away. Wished I was dreaming. Wished I was dead and floating above the world where no one could hurt me ever again.
They left as silently as they came. That morning, I rented a small moving truck online and began packing whatever I could. Two days later, I drove away from the life and career I'd spent almost a decade building.
That was six years ago.
I blink, forcing myself back into the present moment and my Manhattan apartment.
Fuck, I'm going to cry.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip because I refuse to let myself break down again in front of Sean; he's seen enough of my tears.
Clearing my throat repeatedly like I'm trying not to choke on rocks, I launch myself from the couch. I flee to the kitchen and stuff my hands in yellow gloves.
Why would they follow me here?
I did everything they asked. I kept my mouth shut. No one knows who I am.
"Londyn?"
I grab some wipes from beneath the sink and attack an already-spotless counter.
If this is The Director's doing, if he's found me after all this time, what does he want?
Six years of silence. Six years of invisibility. Why now? Why send men to follow me instead of just, I don't know. Finishing what he started?
"Londyn? Hey."
I pause my scrubbing long enough to glance over my shoulder at Sean. He's watching me from the kitchen doorway. I can feel him assessing my state of mind. He gives me space but stays close enough to remind me that I'm not alone.
I have to keep my hands busy, so I move to the dishes in the sink. There's only a mug and a plate, but I scrub them like they're covered in impossible grime.
"I know this is difficult," Sean says after a few minutes of silence. "But I need more information if I'm going to figure out who these men are and what they want."
"I don't know what they want," I whisper, and it's both the truth and a lie.
Sean steps fully into the kitchen, reducing the distance between us. His presence fills the small space, not threatening but impossible to ignore. I can feel the heat from his body, smell the subtle scent of his citrus shampoo mixing with the lavender dish detergent.
What if I leaned into him right now? No prompting, just did it?
How would he react?
How would I react?
"I'm not trying to pry into your personal life," he says, his voice quieter to match the intimate space. "But I need more information so I can protect you."
The word 'protect' echoes inside me, mixing with all the panic threatening to explode from every pore.
He'll protect me.
That settles me slightly but not enough, so I scrub the clean plate harder.
I hear Sean's long, slow inhale before he asks, "Have you had problems with stalkers before you hired me?"
I squeeze the sponge between my hands, twisting it until water drips onto the counter. Drip. Drip. Drip. Like a ticking clock counting down to a confession I'm not ready to make.
I shake my head. "I-I got involved with some bad people," I say. "That's all."
Sean leans against the counter, arms folded across his broad chest. He's deliberately making himself smaller and less imposing. I appreciate that.
"It's important to me that I keep you safe."
I look at him then, at the way his jaw is set and determined, and the way his eyes hold mine without flinching, without the slippery evasion I've come to expect from most people. I look at how he's let his arms drop to his sides, his palms open and facing me like laying himself bare.
He didn't say "It's important" or "It's important for security purposes." He said it's important to him . Personally.
I drop my gaze to the sink, unable to bear the intensity in his eyes. If I look at him too long, I might splinter and tell him everything.
How will he look at me then?
Like a victim.
Not a woman.
"I'm sorry," I say as I take off the yellow gloves and grip the edge of the counter.
"I… read some… articles," he says carefully, each word placed like he's walking across ice that's cracking. "About your acting career."
My body goes cold, then hot, then cold again. He knows I was an actress. How did he find out? I remain silent as if my lack of response will get him to stop asking questions. My control is slipping.
"You mentioned that a man named Alan verbally abused you. Was it Alan Miller? The director of your sitcom? Is he one of the bad guys you were involved with?"
I squeeze my eyes shut. He knows this much? I can't talk about The Director. I can't think about him or I'll—
"Londyn?"
I shake my head as a way to tell him I just can't discuss this subject right now.