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I could sulk. I could simmer and feel sorry for myself. But I have bigger things to worry about. Ironically, the letters motivated my decision to file for divorce. I can’t bear to be terrified of my own shadow and come home to a cold man like Roman.
I find my phone to call London and my other best friend, Holland. It’s time I tell my friends, if only to know I have at least two people on my side. But I take solace in the fact that Roman will be served divorce papers before the end of the day.
* * *
I pullmy silver Mercedes Cabriolet into the parking lot of a run-down strip mall in Santa Monica and heave a sigh. This place is only ten miles from my place in Bel Air but the drive takes over an hour.
Both London and Holland offered to meet me here today, but I turned them down, unwilling to be a burden. Old habits die hard. As long as someone else knows—in case anything happens. A shudder racks my body.
I didn’t tell them about the divorce. I saved that failure for another time, when telling the tale won’t make me seem so needy and pathetic.
The door to the private detective’s shoddy office is open. I go inside and breathe through the heavy aroma of coffee.
Roman can afford the most expensive, most highly recommended detective in town. The allowance he gives me to live my life and leave him alone is enough to get my hair done and update my wardrobe so I look like the wife of a millionaire financier. I refuse to ask for more. My husband’s money comes with strings that’ll strangle me with one twist. He’ll berate my dance studio and then begin a tirade about my tired dancesport career, as if anyone in their right mind would consider dancing a sport.
I’ve tried for years not to depend on him. I don’t know whether I’m ready to support myself, but I can’t wait any longer. The Cabriolet’s trunk and back seat are full of clothing and shoes. I’ve shuttled as many belongings as possible to my dance studio, the one I pay for with money from the classes I teach with one of my former competitive dance partners.
I have nowhere else to go. My parents’ reaction to my divorce could be elation or a hefty lecture about how I should’ve known better. I should’ve learned from their separation. Father doesn’t talk to me. Mother’s been trying to strengthen our tenuous relationship, inviting me to lunch or trying to incorporate me into her business, but I haven’t reciprocated. She was the one who said I needed to learn to live on my own. “Be a big girl,” she’d told me.
I can hear her exasperation if I were to tell her about the letters. She was a wildly popular child actress, and she’s navigated creepers and predators since she was old enough to tie her shoes. Between my divorce and the stalker, she might think I’m just inept.
No, thank you. I’ll camp in my dance academy. My studio. Nothing is going to change that. Moving Grace is the only reason I haven’t dived into a bottle of pills or a jug of wine and drowned myself. But I’ve had to reserve some of my earnings to pay for a private detective, so I’m unable to afford a storage unit or an apartment.
I’ll be sleeping at the studio tonight. My first night alone. Fitting.
“Hello, Mitzy,” I greet the older woman with owlishly big eyes and thick, dark-rimmed glasses behind the reception desk. “I have an appointment with Newland.”
She smiles and calls over her shoulder. “Newt! Your ten o’clock’s here.”
The door behind Mitzy opens. There’s no other space in the office. The other door is a closet bathroom I had the misfortune of needing to use once. Newland doesn’t have good aim, and he either doesn’t care or needs glasses as thick as Mitzy’s.
“Ma. I told you to page me.”
She lifts a shoulder and goes back to pecking at the keyboard in front of her. “You can go in.”
Newland runs his hand down a tie that has at least one fresh stain. I plan to buy him a new coffee mug before I’m done working with him. His leaks enough for coffee to run down the side and pool under the cup on the desk. When he takes a drink, it drips off the bottom and onto his shirt.
“Good morning, Penni.” He ushers me toward a worn chair crammed between the door and his metal desk. “Have a seat.”
I perch and try not to wince as the metal edge of the chair cuts into my legs. I should’ve worn thicker leggings, but these are good for dance and I have a class to teach at one.
Newland sits and shuffles some papers. Anxiety builds. Roman wouldn’t know I’ve moved out yet. For a few blissful hours, I won’t worry about him. My stress is focused on my stalker.
Does Newland have information on my case? When he sets down the papers, I peek at the top sheet, but it looks like a billing statement. Nothing about my case. Newland catches the direction of my gaze and flips the top sheet over.
They aren’t state secrets. I don’t think they’re more than his rent and insurance bills.
“So, Penni. I’ll be honest, this guy is good.”
Fear climbs into my throat. The first letter was the one I found on my studio door and was signed “from a secret admirer.” The next was on my windshield. Those were the most common places, only they’ve grown more intimate—and threatening.
I see you dance every time I close my eyes.
You tease me with your clothes.
I hope you don’t spread those beautiful legs like that for everyone.
The comment was obscene, but also a little bit of salt in the wound. Roman’s probably fucking someone among his new young office staff. He doesn’t come home wanting sex with me. And I’m fine with that. I shouldn’t feel used and discarded after sex with my own husband. If the alternative is no sex, then I’ll take it.
