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“Fingerprints,” is all she whispers.
But it’s enough. Enough to let me know that this box is full of some kind of toxic shit that is tormenting the woman I love.
“Summer?”
She doesn’t make eye contact with me, just continues cleaning up.
“Where did these come from?”
Silence descends on the bathroom. She pauses, staring at one of the slim pieces of paper. I’m able to read the title of this one, too. A woman got attacked and robbed on the way home from her night shift.
I’ll keep you safeis written on it.
“Someone leaves them for me. Or mails them.” Her tone is detached, as if she’s merely commenting on the weather.
Only, when Summer talks about the weather, she’s normally still animated.
This cold disinterest makes me feel sick.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You need to go to the police.” I never thought I’d utter those words, but I’ll ask anyone for help to keep Summer safe.
“I did.”
“And?”
She closes the box, leaning over to tuck it back under the sink.
“And they don’t know either. There weren’t any fingerprints on the first few, so when I kept coming in with more they suggested I move.”
“What the fuck?” The words burst out of me, and I collapse back against her shower, shoving my fists against the cold floor. It’s either that or punch a hole in the wall. “Move? That’s bullshit. You can’t just up and move!”
“I did.”
“You did what?”
“I moved. This is the third place I’ve lived in two years. But it doesn’t matter. The articles and things keep showing up.”
“Things?” My muscles tighten as if preparing for battle. But I have no one to fight. No clear enemy to defend Summer from.
She’s being tormented by a ghost.
For years.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes. It does.” I speak slowly because that’s the only way I can keep from raging.
But she doesn’t need me in a temper. She needs to feel safe around me because someone has been stealing that from her.
Summer settles, her legs crossed, her back pressed against the cabinet door as if to keep me from seeking out the box again.
“I don’t like to think about it.”
Of course she doesn’t.
