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“I feel like you’re teasing me,” I say even as I bend down and press my ear close to the cardboard. “I don’t hear anything,” I whisper.
His gaze is locked on mine, the dark brown of his eyes looks richer today. It reminds me of freshly melted chocolate, decadent and rich. “I don’t either. Are we safe to open it, you think?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, anxiety blaring inside of me that we should be careful. Except that it really does seem like just a box. The kind that someone would ship a couple of hardcover books in. Not too big or too wide.
“It’s probably not a bomb, right?”
“No, I don’t think it is,” he whispers, his lips curving into a small smile.
I stand up with a decisive nod. “Okay, let’s open it then.”
I hold my breath as he cuts the tape, squeeze my eyes closed halfway as he opens the flaps. But there isn’t a bomb inside the box. No, that would’ve been easier.
Polaroid photos fill the entire box. There must be hundreds of them. They’re the big ones, not the smaller, mini-sized photos. On top of all of them sits a white envelope with my name scrawled across the middle. There’s something familiar about the handwriting, but I can’t place it right away. I pluck the note from the pile, a pop of bright pink catching my eye. Underneath the envelope, the first Polaroid photo on top of the pile is of something pink on a white background.
“What?” I murmur, setting the envelope down and grabbing the photo. It looks like a slightly scrunched up ball of fabric.
No. It’s not just any fabric. It looks exactly like a pair of pink panties. And I’d bet my life that this is a pair of seamless high-cut cheeky panties in the color sugar pink.
“What in the fuck is this?” Adrenaline spikes inside my bloodstream, sending my heart racing. I clutch the photo in my hand and run upstairs.
“Sugar?”
I ignore him, but not because I’m trying to ice him out. I don’t actually think I can speak right now. Not with the way my mind is racing. My breaths come out in choppy pants, and I’m actually scared I might pass out or something.
“Sugar, what are you doing?” His voice is closer now, and I’m sure he’s right behind me. Good. Then he can make sure I’m not losing my fucking mind.
I run into my bedroom, beelining for the dresser. With entirely too much force, I yank open the top drawer and rifle through it one-handed.
“No, no, no. Where are they?”
Lincoln hovers behind me, his warmth a soothing balm against my back. “What’s going on, sugar? What are we looking for?”
“These,” I growl out, jabbing my index finger against the photo. “These are the same fucking panties that I strangled that asshole with. You know, the person who took me from your house. The same person who knew about your tunnel and then drugged me and took me states away.”
I jab the photo again. “And these—these are my favorite fucking pair of panties, Lincoln. I thought it might’ve been a coincidence, likely just some random kinky thing that asshole was into, ya know? I mean, I’m not going to judge him for it. I definitely judged him for the whole kidnapping though because that shit is fucked-up.”
He palms both sides of my face, shuffling closer so he’s directly in front of me. “Breathe, sugar. Slow down. Tell me what’s going on in this beautiful brain of yours.”
I exhale, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. “I can’t calm down, Lincoln. Because I’m pretty sure this is a photo of my actual panties. Which makes me think I strangled some fucking psychopath with my favorite pair of fucking panties.”
“It’s alright, don’t cry, sugar. We’ll get you new ones, yeah?”
“I don’t give a fuck about them. I’m mad, and sometimes when I’m angry my eyes leak because they’re traitorous organs like that.”
He smiles, running his thumbs underneath my eyes and catching any stray tears. “Alright, let’s go back downstairs and see what the note said, yeah?”
I nod and sniff, tilting my head to place a kiss along his inner wrist. “Yeah, okay.”
He laces his hand with mine and we jog down the stairs and back into the kitchen. I drop the panty polaroid on the island and slide the card from the envelope.
It’s a condolences card, and there’s nothing written inside, just the pre-printed message.
Wishing you strength and solace in the midst of your grief. With heartfelt condolences.
Lincoln’s saying something to me, but it’s like I’m having an out of body experience. Pieces are tumbling around on the game board, sliding into place until a bigger picture is starting to take shape. I cross the kitchen and pull out the manilla envelopes of random birthday cards we found a couple of months ago when we were cleaning out the cabinets. They’re all addressed to me with nothing written inside, just the pre-printed message.
But the handwriting on the envelopes is the same.
