I pull up her father’s contact, thumb hesitating over the call button. I haven’t spoken to him in a few days. After the island... things feel different. Besides, she’s fine. She’s safe. We’ve worked out a content filming schedule so we’ll be less tempted to murder each other during work hours.
I’ll get in touch with him later.
Poppy’s name flashes across my screen. I glance at it uneasily. She’s never called me before. Whenever we’ve communicated outside of the kitchen, it’s by text; she uses an excessive amount of emojis. It’s like deciphering an ancient language when her name pops up. Her latest badgering has been about staff, because, as she’s rightly pointed out many times now, we can’t run a kitchen by ourselves. I wonder how pissed Douglas would be if I poached Hazel from Pastiche.
I answer the call before it rings again. “What’s up, Winfield?”
She doesn’t answer, but I hear her soft, staccato breathing.
“Hello? Winfield?”
She shrieks. I freeze, heart thudding in my chest like a gong. “Poppy?”
“He’s here.” She gulps shakily. She’s whispering, as if afraid of being overheard. “He’s in the apartment.”
“He?” I tear off the apron. I jerk my hand through my hair, spinning in a useless circle before finding my knife roll. “Who’s there?”
“I knew he’d come eventually.”
“Who?”
“Oh my god, he’s moving.” She whimpers. “Jack, he’s terrifying. He’s horrible. He’s—ohgod, he’s going to come back with his friends.”
My heart’s about to sprint out of my fucking chest. Leave it to Poppy to have a stalker she didn’t tell me about. He’s probably one of those fucking assholes sliding into her DMs and paying attention to every geotag. Poppy’s still babbling over the line, words blending together, as I sprint across the lot to my Jeep.
“I’m on my way.” I put the car into gear. “Fight if you need to.”
“Please hurry.” Her line disconnects.
I tear out of the parking lot.
I reach Poppy’s apartment complex in record time. It’s painted a cheery bright blue and overrun with tropical foliage, but clearly outdated; one good hurricane could rip off the roof. Unease roils my gut as I throw the car into park. I grab a knife out of my roll at random. One of the long, heavy ones. Better safe than sorry.
I don’t know which apartment is hers. She didn’t let me walk her to the door when I dropped her off. I’m willing to take a bet on the bottom right unit, however. The blinds are open far enough to show the edge of a crumpled pink blanket on a bed.
I hammer on the flimsy door. “Poppy. Poppy!”
No response. I kick in the door. It ricochets against the opposite wall, giving me a view of a cramped, outdated kitchenette. Poppy’s red bathing suit hangs over the oven handle. I spot Gator’s food and water bowls in the corner, but don’t see him. Or Poppy.
I grip the knife tighter as I walk in. No signs of a struggle. The place sure as hell isn’t neat, but I wouldn’t expect that from her anyway. Maybe her stalker hasn’t come back yet. Maybe she persuaded him to leave.
Or maybe he left with her.
The thought turns my heart to ice.
I peer around a corner. In the equally small living room, there’s a musty old couch, buried under clothes and heels. The television plays at a low murmur.
“Poppy.” I raise my voice, body tensed in case I need to defend us. “It’s me. Where are you?”
“In here,” she calls from somewhere farther in the apartment.
Relief punches through me at her answer. “Are they still here? Are you hurt?”
“He’s still there.” Her voice breaks. “In the bedroom.”
I hold the knife out as I inch down the hallway. Hopefully there isn’t a dead body on the floor. I can imagine Poppy flailing around in a panic, knocking the guy out with a pan. If I have to drive downto the Everglades tonight and dump a body, I’ll do it, but I sure as hell won’t be happy about it.
The bedroom door is slightly ajar. I ease it open slowly.
