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Mrs. Beckett looks at her husband and says, “We should tell the police,” and he agrees.
Throughout the whole conversation, it’s not lost on me how Jackson still stands with his back to the wall, quiet, listening, seemingly unaffected. If I found out just a short while ago that someone tried to kill my sister, I’d be outraged.
That night, I’m in the break room. It’s just after seven o’clock and I’m exhausted and het up from the day. I quietly gather my things to leave. Beside me, Luke does the same thing.
I catch a glimpse of the mail I took from my mailbox this morning on the way into work. I didn’t look at it this morning; I just stuck it in my bag. Now, a small red envelope sits on top with my name on it, written in an all-caps, very manly print, and the thing that draws my attention to it is that there is no address, no return address and no postmark.
Luke says goodbye, to head home for the night. I say goodbye too, but I’m distracted because my mind is miles away now.
Luke leaves and, alone, I reach for the envelope. I slide a finger under the flap to open it. Inside I find a torn sheet of white computer paper. The front is blank, but when I turn it over in my hand, the back robs my lungs of air.
In jagged, masculine handwriting with all caps and black ink, it reads BITCH, the horizontal stroke of the H written so forcibly that a hole lances the page.
The break room door opens all of a sudden and I jump, almost dropping the note. Luke returns. “Almost forgot this,” he says absentmindedly, sweeping something up off the floor. I don’t see what it is. I barely register him because my eyes are hung up on the note, on the handwriting, on that awful word.
Who could have sent this? Even more, how did it come to be in my mailbox if there is no postmark? It didn’t go through the post office. Someone put it there. Someone was at my apartment. Someone got into my mailbox somehow and left this note for me.
“Meghan?” Luke asks, and my eyes jerk up to find him standing close. There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “What’s that you’ve got there, a love note?” he teases because of the red envelope, I think.
“Yeah right. I wish. But no,” I say, thinking on my feet, “it’s just a letter from an old friend.” My words are terse, my throat tight. I need water. Air. I can barely breathe. I force the note back into the envelope though my movements are careless, rushed, and it takes three attempts to get it in, the corner of the page catching on the envelope’s flap.
BITCH
His expression turns thoughtful, concerned. “Is it bad news?” he asks.
“No, why?”
“I don’t know,” he says, reading me. “You just seem upset.”
“I’m not. No. I’m honestly fine, just tired,” I say, making a false front of being fine, and he believes me, I think.
“Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
“I’m going to head out then. Have a good night.” He pauses. “You want me to wait for you? I can walk you home?”
There’s a part of me that almost says yes, because I’m afraid to be outside alone, because of this note and because of everything else that’s been happening. I glance up and our eyes meet, and I think what a relief it would be to have someone like Luke in my life to confide in, to assure me that this note is a mistake and that everything will be okay, to walk me home and make sure I get inside safely.
But then I think of Penelope alone, waiting for him to come home.
“No,” I say, taking a deep breath, my words more grounded and self-possessed. There will be people on the street as there always are. Rush hour commuters. The only place without foot traffic is my own street, which I will take fast. It’s just a short stretch, and then once I’m in the apartment, I’ll be fine. “Thank you, that’s sweet, but I’ll be okay. I might treat myself and take a cab,” I lie, hoping he buys it.
His eyes are still on me. They’re warm, keen, searching.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks after a minute.
“Of course. You can tell me anything.”
“You won’t think I’m weird?”
“Well, that depends on what you’re about to say,” I say, trying to keep things light, witty, though it’s completely contradictory to how I feel.
“It’s just that I worry about you and Sienna,” he admits. “Not that you can’t take care of yourselves—you can—but, I don’t know—all these stories on the news. This fucking madman going after women. I lose sleep over it some nights.”
“You lose sleep worrying about Sienna and me?” I ask, but as soon as I do, I think that I’ve misinterpreted what he was trying to say and feel embarrassed. He loses sleep thinking about this madman, not about Sienna and me.
But Luke nods. I wasn’t wrong. He does lose sleep worrying about Sienna and me.
