“Yeah,” Paisley chimes in. “All three of us have been together this whole time. And no one went out to the parking lot.”
Ben looks pissed, while the girls appear more defensive. “If someone put a creepy flower on your windshield,” Ben starts. “It wasn’t us. You think I have time to take a picture, print it, and put a flower on your windshield? Bullshit. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
He’s right. And I basically had eyes on them the whole time. My face reddens, embarrassed that I automatically assumed it was one of them.
Ben gets up to leave, but then something else dawns on me.
“Wait! Did one of you leave a note on my windshield the other day?”
Ben groans, and Faith and Paisley shake their heads.
Faith has a silent conversation with Ben and Paisley before speaking. “We’ve only pulled a couple of innocent office pranks. We have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Shit.
This is much more serious than I thought.
I rub the back of my neck, feeling the tension knot in my shoulders. Something is definitely off here. All three are being upfront, and they seem genuinely confused. But if they didn’t put the flower there, who did?
I let them leave early, mainly due to guilt. I direct and assist the cleaning crew for takedown, and once the ballroom is back to pristine condition, it’s time to go home. Walking toward my car, I try to ignore the nagging sensation that I’m being watched. The wedding was a success, I should be relieved, but now everything feels tainted by the strange flower and picture.
As I unlock my car door, I glance over my shoulder. The mostly empty parking lot stretches out behind me, the pole lights casting long shadows across the gravel. My unease deepens. What if someone was lurking around? What if they saw me?
I glance at my phone. No missed calls, no new messages. I should be glad for that, but it only adds to the paranoia settling in my chest. What if someone knows I’m leaving the winery? What if they know where I live?
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe it’s just someone trying to spook me in good fun and I’m taking it the wrong way. But I can’t let go of the suspicion that something more serious is at play, the feeling that someone is watching me.
As I get in my car and start the engine, I realize I don’t even know what I’m going to do. I can’t exactly call the cops and say, “Hey, I found a flower and a note, I think someone is trying to scare me.” It sounds ridiculous, even to me.
I drive away slowly, scanning the streets as I go, half-expecting someone to jump out in front of me or worse; follow me. I need to get home, but I don’t feel safe. Not really.
Pulling up to my townhouse, I park in the driveway and cut the engine. The headlights flicker off, leaving the yard in darkness. I sit there for a moment, staring at the front door,debating if I should go inside or stay in my car a little longer. I know I’m being paranoid, but I also have no clue how to handle this.
As I finally step out of my car and make my way to the front door, I spot a white envelope taped to my storm door. My chest tightens and stomach flops like I might puke. With shaking hands I grab the envelope and tear into it.
I’m an idiot.
Looking around, I check to make sure none of my neighbors were awake to watch me rip open the envelope like a crazy person.
It’s a notice from the city that the water will be shut off for an hour next Wednesday.
The tightening in my chest uncoils for a moment, only to return when my mind is flooded with every bad thing that could be waiting on the other side of my door.
My heart races as I work to unlock the door. It’s not until I hear the distinct sound of the latch clicking that I’m able to take a breath. Stepping inside, I immediately switch on the lights.
The great room is just as I left it, and there’s a stillness in the air that tells me I’m alone. At least I think I’m alone.
Regardless, I don’t trust my instincts at the moment. Instead, with my phone clutched in my hand, I race through my townhouse, checking every room and closet, even checking under the bed.
I’m losing it. Or worse, I’m not.
CHAPTER 22
Dominic
GORDON RAMSEY
PRESENT
