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“I tried delivering mail to your work. I’ve put a couple of letters in your mailbox, but your pesky neighbor kept taking them out. I think he thought I was doing something nefarious, and let’s face it, he isn’t wrong.” His eyes are dark brown. He’s 5’10”, maybe 6’0”. Barrel-chest. Looks like he might kill me with one punch.
I commit these details to memory. If I get out of this alive, I’ll have a jumping-off point for the police. After all, he has a particular shape.
“But you seem to be a pro at avoiding me. It’s almost like you know what I’m here to say.” He gets up from the dark green chair that Peter and I bought together at Nebraska Furniture Mart a year before he died. I kept it as a reminder of my husband, but now I think I’m going to have to burn it. “Do you know what I’m here to say, Francesca?”
In a fight-or-flight situation, I’ve always been a fighter. I come out swinging because I’m small. I know that if I don’t start punching, I’ll get punched. But something about this dark-dressed, masked figure sends me into panic mode. Instead of fighting, I freeze. I can’t run, I can’t move, I can’t even open my mouth to answer his question. An absurd thought crosses my mind:I can’t wait to tell my motherI told youso when she finds out my house was broken into.
“Cat got your tongue?” He asks with a cluck of his tongue. “I guess that’s Lucky’s revenge for you tossing him out after your husband died.”
It’s a beautiful spring day out. Some might even say it’s unseasonably warm right now. But a chill still races down my spine when he brings up the cat my husband and I shared. “That isn’t what happened.” Those are the only words that don’t stick in my throat.
“So youdotalk,” he grins. “I thought you might. I’ve heard you talk a lot, Francesca Scot. I’ve heard you at school assemblies. I’ve heard you at restaurants. I’ve heard you at bars. You’re a chatty little thing.”
I know him; he might be a parent. Which means if he knows our old cat’s name, our relationship goes back an eternity. I think I’m going to be sick.
“I figured since I can’t seem to get the message to you through ordinary means, I’d try extraordinary measures. You’ve got a nice home here.” He looks around as he steps toward me. The front door is only inches away; my hand is still on the doorknob. All I have to do is fling it open and run. If I start screaming, someone will come out and help. Someone will call the cops.
“It isn’t as nice as Cesare’s, though,” he comments after a few moments. “I haven’t been inside, of course, but I looked it up on Zillow. The pictures from when he purchased it are still online. What did he do with the master bath jetted tub? It looked like it needed some serious TLC in the online photos.”
Does he know Cesare? Is this related to the Valenti family? I always knew that my relationship with them would get me into trouble.
“Come on, Francesca,” he scoffs. “It isn’t fun talking to myself. Get in here, and let’s chat.” He stands only ten feet away now. If I open the front door and run, I’ve got a 50% chance of making it. Every step closer reduces my odds. “If you don’t, I’ll show up at your boyfriend’s next. I’ll get an in-person tour of his cute little home while I’m nailing him to a wall and cutting his tongue out.”
My boyfriend. Cesare. “We aren’t dating,” I admit with a stupid look on my face.
He slams his fist into the nearest wall, leaving a hole in his wake. “Don’t play dumb with me, bitch. You know who I’m talking about. If you ever want to talk to him again, you’ll start playing ball.”
Nobody would have suspected thatI’dbe the reasonCesarewas getting threatened. In what universe does that make any sense? “What do you want?”
“First, have a seat with me. We haven’t chatted in a while, Francesca. I’d love to know what you’re up to.” He gestures toward the living room like I’m a guest in his home. I have no choice but to step away from my chance at freedom and walk into the lion’s den. “You haven’t done any of the renovations you and Peter discussed,” he frowns. “I thought you were going to open up the kitchen so that it felt a little more spacious.”
I had a lot of plans after Peter passed. Talking about what I was going to do with our home was one of the only things that kept me from going crazy when my husband died. “I didn’t have the time or money,” I admit after a few long, tense moments.
“But you had the time to have a realtor come over and check out the place.” God, is there anything this man doesn’t know about me? “Francesca, listen, I don’t want to ruin your day. I’ve got a wife and kids at home who would love me to be there. But I can only afford the thousands of dollars for my daughter to take gymnastics and dance classes all year if I work. I’m here for a job, and frankly, my boss is upset that it’s taken me so long to get to you. So, take the letter, and I’ll be on my way.”
More pieces of the fucked up puzzle start to fall into place. Unfortunately, I still can’t make out the picture.
The masked stranger hands me a little white envelope the size of a business card. It’s the kind of envelope you’d see on a bouquet of flowers. Inside is the type of card that would havebest wishesorcongratulationsorI love youwritten on it. Instead, there’s a single name.
Eric Benson.
My head starts to swim, and my eyes gloss over. I don’t realize I’m crumpling the card until the stranger reaches out to grab my hand.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he chastises. “Just because you throw away the evidence doesn’t mean my boss won’t find out about this meeting.”
“Get out of my house.” I drop the card to the floor and rip my arm from his grasp. “Tell your boss that he can’t hurt me. Peter is dead. Who’s he going to tell?”
I can’t see the stranger’s eyebrow raise, but he lets out a curious little snort. “Whoisn’the going to tell? You still work with the guy. I’m sure the entire district would love to know about the Superintendent getting involved with a verymarried, veryyoungteacher. Was it eight years ago? Or nine?”
Eight, but who’s counting? “Get out before I call the cops.” The words are hollow, just like my threat.
“See you around, Francesca. Tell your boyfriend I said hi.”
8
FRANCESCA
Imarried Peter when I was twenty-three.
