Page 132 of Letters From A Stalker

The safe house has always been one of the easier things in my life to understand, even when the practical work surrounding it becomes an endless rotation of repairs, security upgrades, grants, staffing problems and houses that seem determined to discover a new way of leaking every six months. The purpose itself remains simple enough that I never have to wonder what side of the line I am supposed to stand on. People need somewhere safe, so we make sure they have it. A pipe leaks, it gets repaired. A railing becomes unsafe, it gets replaced. Someone needs a room, we find one. There is comfort in problems that can be named that cleanly.

Julia has never been one of those problems. She doesn’t need fixing, despite how often people before me seem to have treated her emotions as malfunctions that needed correcting. She needed room to figure out which parts of herself belonged to her and which ones had been shaped around keeping everybody else comfortable. Somewhere along the way, while helping her do exactly that, I managed to turn myself into the most complicated thing in her life. Impressive work.

A shadow crosses the doorway before Mara walks in carrying a paper bag, which she deposits on the corner of my desk without ceremony.

“Lunch.”

I look from the bag to her. “I didn’t order anything.”

“I’m aware.”

“Mara.”

“You’re welcome.”

There is no point arguing once she uses that tone, but exhaustion apparently has destroyed the last scraps of my judgment.

“I have food.”

She glances around the desk as though expecting lunch to materialize if she looks hard enough. “Where?”

“At home.”

“That should be extremely useful here.”

I lean back and give her a look.

She points at the bag. “Eat before your one-thirty. You’re already running on whatever happened last night and an offensive amount of coffee.”

Something in my expression must change because her eyes sharpen instantly.

“Interesting.”

“Leave.”

Her grin appears. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“That keeps happening today.”

“Mara.”

She laughs as she backs toward the door. “Eat the sandwich, Dracula.”

The door closes behind her. I stare at it for a second before pulling the bag closer.

Inside is a sandwich, an apple and chips, none of which should be remarkable enough to make me think of anything other than lunch, but the sight of actual food immediately brings back the note sitting on Julia’s kitchen counter.

Drink plenty of water, eat something that qualifies as an actual meal.

I lean back and laugh under my breath. Apparently I have become the kind of asshole who gives advice he needs his office manager to enforce personally. I eat the sandwich.

By late afternoon, exhaustion has settled heavily behind my eyes, but the rest of the day remains manageable enough that nobody except Mara seems to notice. I finish notes between appointments, approve the preliminary repair estimate when Renee emails it through and call Marisol during a cancellation before the day gets away from me.

She tries to dismiss the college placement almost immediately, telling me it is only the first step and that she still has to prove she can handle the coursework.

I let her talk for a minute before interrupting. “You got in.”