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It’s a note. But not just any note, one that dredges up the past, when Casey first started doing the radio show and adapted it to Casey’s Confessions. The stalker issue I’d dealt with… or so I thought.
My Night Owl,
I’ve missed your show, could it be after one too many
rejections your wings have been clipped?
Regards,
Your Most Devoted Fan
“Fuck. I need to make a call.” On shaky legs I stand up and reach for my phone. “Eli, this is worse than we thought.”
Eli comes over right away and explores the apartment, making phone calls and assurances that his people will update some of the existing security in the building and specifically for the apartment. Cameras will record the comings and goings, and updated security clearance will be needed for those living and visiting the building especially anyone coming to the penthouse floor.
I’m mollified for the moment because the man standing in my home has experience killing hostiles. It’s not that I’m squeamish, far from it. I’m filled with rage, and I don’t think I can trust myself to not go apeshit on the wrong person right now. My temper is something that Casey can’t stand, and I’m motivated to change that. Eli can focus my rage into something useful while doing the dirty work for me.
“Tell me about the delivery.” Eli examines the vase. It’s nondescript clear glass from any run-of-the-mill florist shop in Philadelphia. The flowers are soft, pink, with delicate petals, and cheap. The balloons are mini boom boxes and music notes attached with black ribbon. The note is plain card stock and handwritten. It never occurred to me to connect the separate events. The mysterious admirer seemed to have stopped on his own months ago, and I never wanted Casey to be troubled with the deliveries of fan mail or inappropriate gifts zealous admirers would send her on occasion.
“It was a guy from the staff at the downstairs desk who brought it up. I know I’ve seen him working here before. I tipped him twenty bucks and sent him on his way. I didn’t really look at him or question him further, and I should have. The whole thing feels weird, and I’m second-guessing myself.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself; it doesn’t mean he was the guy. I’ll have to track him down and check which florist was used to see if we can get any other answers.” He makes notes on a tablet and calls one of his guys, someone he calls the Preacher, to run some background information for him. The wait makes me anxious, but there’s nothing I can do, and I fucking hate it.
“I’ve got a file at the office with some of the other letters Casey received at work. They’re similar to this one, but it stopped months ago.” Eli nods and lets me know he’ll stop by to pick them up tomorrow.
“Look, this could be some random thing—a copycat, if you will—or all connected. I’m going to get some answers and we’re going to get this guy. I just need the two of you to remain calm and stick to your regular routine.” We look at each other, puzzled. None of this runs in our regular routine. “Or… just do what new couples do.” He shakes his head, muttering about relationships being a pain in the ass, and goes back to making notes on his tablet.
He speaks to Casey, asking simple questions she can answer with a nod or a shake, and I’m grateful he doesn’t push her. He seems satisfied with her answers and promises to be in touch tomorrow with another update. We’re all baffled by what is happening. The short list of suspects doesn’t help, and it’s not narrowing down productively.
31
Casey
It’s a week and two days later—the following Friday, to be exact—and the day of my dreaded follow-up doctor appointment has arrived. Nerves reverberate through my body, followed by chills of uncertainty. James and I have been living in our ivory tower, protected and secluded from the outside world. He’s been working from his home office, giving some lame excuse that he wants to keep me company during my recovery. He’s forbidden me from doing anything. I am more than recovered and going looney tunes being cooped up.
I tried to clean, and he removed all the cleaning supplies after the bathtub cleanser irritated my burn. I tried filing his papers from the office but managed to mess up his PA’s system and misplaced an important contract. I swear that woman Michelle hates me. She hissed at me grabbing files when she stopped by to check in with James over a coming meeting he planned to skype from his home office. Her innuendo was hard to miss that I was only good for the bedroom and not the radio.
I tried arranging his clothes in the closet by color and season, so he tied me to the bed and practiced his ice-cream-cone-licking technique until I cried uncle and promised not to touch another thing in the apartment. It was awful, I swear… Okay, so that one wasn’t so bad, but still…
My recovery consists of boring hours spent sitting on his luxurious couch with the remote for reality television, and take-out food since James doesn’t cook and I’m not much of one, either. I wanted to take a walk on his treadmill and he removed the plug adapter for the outlet. My hand is burned, with cuts all over it, but I only need one hand to change the channel on his sixty-inch screen TV. He’s a tad bit overprotective. I’ve used my voice as sparingly as possible, and the little I have varies between “soundless hot mess” and “party girl smoker after a hard night.” Radio as a career is clearly out as far as I can tell, and an unexpected depression settles heavy over my heart. It’s terrible; I fear whatever career I might have had left doing voice-overs or audible books is over, too.
We sit inside his car in front of the doctor’s office, waiting. “Whatever the doctor says, I want you to remain hopeful.” James hasn’t let go of the steering wheel. Instead, he’s gripping it, white-knuckled, like a lifeline, and his energy isn’t helping the nerves in my stomach. I wonder who needs to be calm and hopeful, me or him?
“I know… but…”
James is shaking his head and looking at me, concerned.
“Babe, we will get through this.” He reaches for me, our mouths just barely touching, and our eyes connect. He doesn’t have to say anything else as he grips the back of my neck pulling me in closer and kissing me hard. His fingers tangle in my hair and the strength of his grip is reassuring. I wonder how we’ll get through this. Some crazed stalker fan who’s sent me gifts in the past is conceivably the creep who got into the radio station, saw
us together, made an audio sex tape of us, and aired it. Maybe they set my apartment building on fire, maybe not, and then sent flowers to James’ apartment.
Eli Bennett, the security expert James hired, is still looking things over but has no leads yet. The flowers had been purchased a block away with a prepaid gift card and the call from the shop also came from a prepaid cell phone, the number already disconnected. The past two weeks have been one huge question-filled nightmare.
We enter the office through a back door in the parking lot. I fill out a ton of paper work, and James takes it up to the receptionist. He opens his wallet, and a silver card flashes as he hands it to the woman behind the glass. I hate that he’s paying for this, but I’m too upset to stop him.
“Miss Cole?” A nurse directs me to an exam room, and James follows closely behind.
James brushes my hair off my shoulder to speak softly against my neck, his lips grazing the skin. “I’ve always wondered what making out in a doctor’s office would be like.”
