Page 121 of Kiss, Marry, Kill

The apartment buzzer rang then. Jude glanced up.

“Expecting someone?” I asked him.

“No,” he said. He pulled out his own phone and checked the doorbell camera. On the stoop outside our brownstone stood a delivery driver, a large box in his hands.

We both walked to the door, and Jude swung it open.

“Ophelia Ella Takeda?” the driver in the cap asked as he glanced at the box’s label.

“Yes,” I said, and Jude reached for the box.

“Careful. It’s heavy,” he cautioned as Jude took it in his strong arms. The delivery guy nodded at us and then jogged back to his idling truck.

“I didn’t order anything,” I said, glancing at the huge box as Jude slipped it onto the kitchen table next to my half-eaten omelet.

Jude reached for a knife from the block and ripped into the tape. He peeled back the cardboard lid and pulled out some brown packing paper.

Beneath it lay a basket filled with fresh lemons. All with the stems on.

All Sorrentos.

A note attached to the handle simply said:

Tag, you’re it.