For a moment, I imagine an alternate reality in which I tell my manager that I was kidnapped earlier this week, and not only did I not tell anyone, but I didn’t call the police or FBI.Andon top of that,I agreed to help my kidnapper save his business.
Oh, and I got off fantasizing about him last night and the night before.
Even in that alternate universe, I sound insane. Like, there’s a good chance Amy would be concerned for my mental health. Best-case scenario, she’d call Ryan and Christine to tell them I need a vacation, stat.
Because what happened this week was crazy, and my reaction to it was even more so.
Why didn’t I call the cops? Because he let me go without hurting me? Because I can’t say no to a challenge? Because I’m apparently way too attracted to Gabriel Legend to see him in shackles and being led out of the courtroom onto a bus bound for prison?
I am not attracted to him.
The lie sounds hollow, even in my own brain. Especially considering my newest guilty pleasure. Still, I should have called the police. Actually, I still can. There’s no statute of limitations on reporting a kidnapping, is there? It was only a few days ago, anyway.
I glance up at Amy, who is waiting patiently, but with an expectant look on her face.Shit. She said something to me, and I’m supposed to answer her.
Fuck.Umm, what was it? Something about taking more off my plate?Yeah. That was it.
“You work your butt off, Amy. I see it every day. I’m already so grateful for everything you do, I won’t weigh you down with more.” I deliver the oblique statement, hoping it makes sense in the context of the conversation whose thread I’ve lost.
“I’m always ready for more of a challenge, Scarlett. I promise. Whatever you need. Just hit me.” She climbs onto the bar stool she usually perches on in the morning and crosses her matte-black leather pumps and very chicly covered legs.
“I really appreciate that. If there’s anything Icandelegate, I promise you’re the first name on my list. How is today’s schedule looking?” I sit across from her and finish my fourth—so what, I lied about something else—cup of coffee.
She shuffles through her planner and then swipes a few times on her iPad. “I don’t have anything for you until your self-defense class. I do have the report from your pickers—I’ve highlighted everything I think we should buy—but I wanted you to see it for final selection. Also, there’s a designer’s rep who wants to swing by and meet with you to discuss dressing you for one of your events.” She leans in to whisper excitedly. “He dressed Meryl Fosse a few months ago and said he could do ten o’clock, if that works for you. I know we open at eleven, so that doesn’t give you much time, but—”
“Fuck,” I say on a groan.
“What?” Amy jerks her head from side to side, as if she’s looking for something jumping out of the walls at us. “What’s wrong?”
“I have an appointment at nine with someone. Chadwick made it for me.”
“On a Friday?” The surprise in Amy’s tone expresses exactly how unwelcome an appointment on this day is.
“Yeah. I know.”
I go to the small table where I leave my keys and various items removed from my pockets, and find the card. There’s just a woman’s name, an address, and a phone number. I’m tempted to call and cancel, but a small part of me is curious who Chadwick thinks I need to talk to in order for us to have a chance at saving this relationship.
Maybe it’s couples counseling? Maybe he’ll be meeting me there but was embarrassed to suggest it in front of my dad? Wouldn’t that actually be somewhat sweet and thoughtful?
Skepticism swats that thought away since it would also be totally outside Chadwick’s normal behavior.
Hmm.With my curiosity piqued, I grab my phone, intent on googling the woman’s name on the card, but Amy snags my attention again, holding out a manila envelope.
“I totally forgot to bring this to you yesterday. A bike messenger delivered it late Wednesday afternoon after you already left, and there was no name or return address. Seemed kind of shady to me, but I didn’t want to call the police or anything until after you open it and see what’s inside. If it’s something from those trolls on social media ...” Amy goes silent as I study the envelope in my hands.
Do I want to open it? What if it’s another one like the last time?The time I haven’t told Amy about because I didn’t want her to worry.At least Christine knows about the photo from my social media account that showed up with horrible things written all over it. Hence, why she didn’t care about interrupting my Friday with self-defense lessons.
I walk to my small writing desk in the corner, grab a letter opener that looks suspiciously like a dagger, and slice the envelope open. Holding only the corners, I dump the contents onto the desk.
It’s a folded piece of white paper. No photo.
That’s a plus.
Amy’s fingers flex by her sides, as though she’s dying to grab it and read what it says, but she holds herself back. I pick it up and unfold it carefully.
Words written in heavy, bold pen strokes mark the page. I wouldn’t call it neat handwriting. More like, utilitarian. One thing is for certain—it’s distinctive.
Finally focusing on what it says, I read.