by Nadia Lee
Tolyan doesn’t study the menu like he did yesterday. He merely comes to me. Then, before I can say the standard greeting, he says, “Drip coffee. Black. No sugar.”
I force a smile. No matter what’s churning in my head, he’s a customer. “Anything else?”
“No.” He hands me a few stiff bills folded neatly in half. “Keep the change.”
It’s only eighty-two cents, but I don’t want it. I can’t make sense of his kindness and his potential for violence.
Sure you can. Think about when he was kind and when he was brutal.
I pause for a second. I’ve known him for two days, and the only time he’s been less than kind is when the other person deserved it. The flasher. The redhead—well, he didn’t know she was obnoxious to me, but I suspect she’s like that with everyone, so he might’ve seen her behave badly. And that drunk guy at the party.
Could it be that the bathtub guy did something? But what could be so bad it deserved—
“Here you go.” Sean’s placid voice interrupts my train of thought. He gives Tolyan his coffee. Tolyan levels a cool look at him, a look reserved for a toddler who’s done something irritating. Sean smiles uncertainly in return.
I lick my lips, feeling like I should say something, but I have no clue what. Sean was just doing his job.
Tolyan stalks out of the café, starts to take a sip, then frowns and throws the rest of the coffee into the trash can outside. He doesn’t seem to care that we can see him do it through the window.
“Did you put something in the coffee?” I ask, in case Sean dumped in some flavored syrup by accident. Some of them have a strong scent, and you can smell it if you bring the coffee close to your face.
“No. Just black, right?”
“The pot still fresh?” Eric asks.
Sean glares at Eric. “Yeah. Super. I checked.” Unlike you is left unspoken.
Eric shrugs. “Okay, then it isn’t anything we did.”
“Probably not,” I say, although I’m a little bit skeptical about Sean’s claims. There’s no reason for Tolyan to toss perfectly fine coffee. Is there? Regardless, I say, “Otherwise, he would’ve just asked for a new cup.” I don’t want them arguing. My aching head can’t handle it.
“Maybe he’s just on the rag,” Eric says.
I almost choke. Tolyan is anything but emo. On the other hand, Eric could very well be PMSing.
“Some men are like that,” he adds. Mr. Insightful.
The rest of the shift goes quietly. More people come in for coffee and pastries as the morning grows late and afternoon rolls around. Lots of smiles. Friendly little comments. Whoops of celebration at one table and a lot of hugs. Somebody’s getting married and inviting all her friends.
Just ordinary life. But not something I can have. Not as long as Roy is out there. He’s hurt my friends before. I can’t have that on my conscience. Courtney texting to check up on me from time to time makes me nervous enough.
The door opens. A courier walks in, his gray uniform slightly wrinkled. His eyes are murky green and wide behind a pair of thick glasses. His face is a tad too pale, like he doesn’t see a lot of sun, and his mouth is thin but soft. The short sleeves of the uniform show thin, gangly arms. The man has to be around thirty, but he appears as harmless as a child.
However, he’s holding a package.
My nerves skitter in that familiar way. But it can’t be what I’m thinking. It’s too soon. Way too soon. And I’ve never received a package at work.
Those packages have always shown up at home.
“Angelika Wilks?” he reads from the label, his voice boyishly young, then looks at us. At me in particular.
I want to tell him he has the wrong name. But there’s no way to run. No way to hide.
Eric and Sean’s gazes bore into me. I fake a smile. “Right here,” I manage, despite a dry throat and mouth.
“If I could just get your signature…” The courier shows me a phone screen.
“I didn’t order anything,” I say feebly. Take the package back, please. But I know what happens if I refuse it. I tried that once and it didn’t end well.
“It’s a gift. Says right here on the label.” His smile says I’m a lucky girl. If only he knew.
“Right.” I try to smile back, sign with my index finger and take the package.
“Have a great day!” The delivery guy leaves.
Eric waits until he’s gone. “A gift, eh?” he says, leaning forward.
Sean cranes his neck. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” I glance down at the cardboard box. The sender’s address is the familiar PO box. It’s a legit one, too. I sent a letter there once saying, “Don’t send me anything ever again,” and the response was immediate.
You don’t get to tell me what to do, sister. Well, “sister” isn’t exactly right, is it? Slut is much more accurate. Cheap whore.
“Well, open it up,” Eric says. “Let’s see what you got from your secret admirer.”
“I don’t have a secret admirer.” My voice is shaky, but Eric and Sean don’t seem to notice.
“I don’t know about that. Never seen a girl get a present at work before,” Eric says.
“Me either,” Sean says. He’s frowning slightly, which is odd. He’s not the one getting stalked by a monster.
I can’t open it because I have no idea what terrible thing it might contain. I want to tell them so, but the words stick in my throat. The last time somebody felt sorry for me and tried to help, he was run over by a truck. A terrible tragedy, everyone whispered, but I knew it wasn’t some accidental hit-and-run.
Roy is a sociopath. A highly functioning, highly intelligent sociopath. And God only knows what’s in the package. He’s sent me unspeakable things over the years. Sometimes it makes me question if he installed a hidden camera in my home so he could savor my reaction. He’d love that.
I glance up at the ceiling to the café’s security camera. I doubt Roy’s hacked into it, but then, he could be watching from outside. So many cars…so many people. He could be out there. Or he could’ve sent somebody in to record my reaction. I glance around at our customers, hating the rising feeling of anxiety within me.
Eric hands me a box cutter. “Here you go. Come on.”
He isn’t going to give up. I place the box cutter on the counter and push the box to him. “You do it.”
His eyes widen, but he seems intrigued. “You sure?”
“Very.”
If Roy sent something disgusting, Eric can see it and deal with it.
“Well.” Eric cocks his head in a little why not gesture. “If you insist…”
For such an oblivious troll, he’s pretty careful, pushing the blade just deep enough to cut the tape without damaging anything inside the box. He runs the blade down, then flips the top and pulls away a mass of gray and purple tissue paper.
“Huh?” He pulls something out of the package. “What the hell? This doesn’t even look new.” He turns to Sean. “Can you buy used underwear?”
My face flames at the sight of the pale beige bra in his hands. It isn’t just any bra, but my favorite, one I washed two days ago and dried and put away in my dresser.
The blood seems to drain from my head, and I have to put a hand on the counter. My whole body starts to tremble.
Roy’s been in my home. My new home. He went through my stuff and took the bra.
And I had no clue.
He could’ve hidden in my place and pounced last night. And instead of asking Tolyan for help like I should have, I was worried about what he was doing at that Owen guy’s house. And today I kept thinking about whether he killed the man instead of doing what I should’ve done.
I’m worried about a potential monster who hasn’t done anything to harm me, when a real monster that’s been toying with me for the last eight years was in my home. Maybe I’m afraid that I’d be putting myself at the tender mercies of Tolyan, who might well turn out to be a bigger and meaner monster
than Roy. But shouldn’t I focus on dealing with the ticking time bomb in front of me rather than a suitcase several feet away that may or may not be dangerous?
Panicked urgency swells, so big and so fast that I struggle to drag in air. I need to ask Tolyan for help now. For all I know, Roy could still be in L.A. When things get personal—like his going through my stuff—he usually comes himself and makes sure I know he’s been there, even though we don’t see each other face to face. When it’s about just intimidating me or hurting people around me, he sends someone.
I have to convince Tolyan to help me before anything else happens. And I have to make my case fast because Roy already knows where I live and where I work.
But how do I find Tolyan? He didn’t come to the jogging trail. He might not return to the café either, especially when he finds our coffee disgusting enough to toss without taking a sip.
Time to move my ass. Now!
I snatch the bra from Sean’s hand and throw it back into the package, then tuck the small box under my arm. “I gotta go.”
“Hey! You still have an hour left,” Eric says, glancing at his watch.
“Yeah, but I have to go.”
He frowns. “This isn’t cool.”
“I know, and I’m sorry, but I really have to deal with this first.” I heft the box. “Consider it your penance for forcing me to open it at work.” Not that I would’ve felt better if I waited. But at least I wouldn’t feel this intense pressure to leave early.
“I didn’t make you open it!”
“You’re the one who was holding the box cutter.” I go to the back, pull the apron over my head and grab my purse from the locker.
Then I’m out the door, head swiveling as I exit onto the gray street. So many people. So many cars. Roy could be anywhere, watching. Or one of people who work for him. It doesn’t matter who’s doing the watching because Roy’s the one in charge.
My breathing roughens. Goosebumps break out over my skin despite the warm air.
Safety. I need safety.
Tolyan.
But where can I find him? So many office buildings. Which one is his? I gotta reach him before Roy grabs me. I run a rough hand over my face as I struggle to breathe through the swelling panic.
Come on, Angelika. Think! Which way did he go this morning?
He went left. But this is Los Angeles. There are tons of buildings in every direction. I don’t have the time to check every single one, assuming security would even let me. On top of that, it might alert Roy that I’m up to something, if he’s having me watched.
Then I remember what Tolyan told the chef at the hotel. He’s the one in charge of signing off for the event. And “the event” was sponsored by the Pryce Family Foundation.
I take out my phone and search for the foundation’s office. It has to be close.
Sure enough, it’s only a couple of blocks away. I dash over. A car running a red light veers, tires screeching, as it barely avoids hitting me while skidding to a stop.
I let out a scream, and my already shaky knees come close to buckling. My vision dims for a second, and I jerk away when a hand touches my shoulder.
“Are you okay?” says an urgent female voice.
“What?” I can’t process the question. Roy loves to hit people with cars. That’s one of his signature moves, and—
“Do you need us to call 911?” another person asks.
I blink and take stock of my surroundings. People. A knot of them. I’m shaking all over, but I’m not broken or bleeding. I turn my head and look at the driver. He’s just a kid—a teenager. He’s so pale his freckles look almost black. The license plate is a standard California-issue with no reference to Roy. At all.
Just a freak coincidence. Nothing more.
Pull yourself together. You don’t have time to waste.
I stand up straight. “I’m fine. Just surprised,” I say, my voice rough. “Anyway, I’m in a hurry. But thank you.”
I rush across the intersection, ignoring everyone’s reaction behind me. They can speculate all they want, but I have a more important objective: reaching the Pryce Family Foundation before Tolyan leaves.
When I finally get to the correct address, I’m standing in front of a gigantic skyscraper. I push at one of the doors. It doesn’t budge.
What?
I try pulling it, which doesn’t work either. I try another door. Nope.
The building’s locked. I bang on the thick glass, but it just hurts my fists. I take a few steps back, breathing hard. There has to be a way in. Tolyan didn’t dress in a suit just to hang out downtown.
I look around and notice a security panel next to the doors. It has a numeric keypad and a slot to swipe a card. Well, the panel’s no use to me, since I have no secret code or card. I tap on the touchscreen.
Enter your passcode and swipe your building ID.
No option for guests or visitors. What’s up with this super-duper security? What’s beyond the doors? A vault full of gold bars?
I make little binoculars with my hands, place them on the glass door and squint at the inside. Maybe it is full of gold bars. I read an article once that said most foundations spend almost all their money on paying high salaries and benefits to the executives.
Should I just wait out here until he comes out? But what if he doesn’t? He probably drove here, which means he’s likely to go straight to his car. I see a sign that says Parking. An underground garage. Since it’s late afternoon on a Saturday, I doubt there’ll be a lot of cars.
My mind made up, I duck under the bar at the car entrance. The security camera above is probably filming me trespassing, but I doubt it’ll matter unless someone gets their car stolen or vandalized, neither of which I plan to do.
There’s an open elevator, but when I go into it and press the floor marked for the foundation, the car doesn’t move. What the…?
Then I note a slot to swipe an ID card—which I don’t have. Crap.
I come out, and the emergency stairwell to the actual office part of the building is locked. Fine. I’ll have to do this the hard way.
Praying that Roy doesn’t know about Tolyan yet, I start checking the garage. The sedan I saw yesterday is on the third level. I huff out a breath. Although I pride myself on being in shape, this is harder than I thought!
Still… I found Tolyan’s car before I was fully covered in sweat. I find a good spot behind an empty SUV and hunker down.
Now all that’s left is waiting.
Chapter Eight
Tolyan
There’s nothing much to do on Saturday that requires me to be in the office, but I come in anyway. My little fawn didn’t make the move I expected last night, and I need to give her another chance.
Not too easily, of course. Nobody should ever feel they’re entitled to me. Taking care of the flasher on my way home last night so she could jog without inconvenience… Well, that was just something I wanted to do. Call it a bonus after cutting out a cancer for humanity. The flasher wasn’t quite cancerous—yet—but a tumor’s not necessarily benign either, especially when it won’t keep to itself.
Criminals are narcissists, no matter how pathetic their origins. They want to be known, and they want to brag. That means they grow large and malignant.
Since she was safe from the flasher, I took my dogs to a different park and played fetch. I was feeling extra cheery. But the entire time I was with my dogs, a portion of my mind stayed with her. Was she disappointed I didn’t show? Did she think she’d have another chance? Has she read the articles yet? The local reporters were quick to write about Rick Owen. But then, I didn’t want his body sitting in that tub for more than a few days. Otherwise I would’ve disabled his car alarm before leaving, so some asshole kids in the morning couldn’t set it off, like they often seem to do in that neighborhood.
She’s a smart little fawn. Cautious, too. She’s going to be careful to make sure she isn’t sticking her neck into some new predator’s maw. She checked me out again
at the café while taking my order. It was irritating that Sean Boyle gave me the coffee. And Eric Jones stood entirely too close to her, which I don’t think she noticed. She was studying me too intently.
The weasel pretended he was making sure she was comfortable with the terminal. If he were a better actor, he wouldn’t have been staring at her chest. Or licking his lips like some hungry mutt faced with a feast.
I had a most uncharacteristic urge to poke his eyeballs out, then snap his jaw with a backhand so his teeth would sink deep into his tongue. Lucky for him, I’m a man of restraint.
I check the time. An hour since the text on my phone.
Delivery completed.
I turn off the laptop. Everything’s calm and orderly in the world of the Four. I walk out of the office and hit the button for an elevator. It takes a few moments to arrive, which is fine. My little fawn needs every moment to get into position.
It would be awkward if I got to my car before she did. But I don’t want to stay in the office much longer. Tchaikovsky, Stravinsky and Mussorgsky are waiting. And I indulge them as much as possible because they’re amazing animals. Loyal. And obedient.
As I approach my car, a sensation very much like fine needles on my skin ripples over me from head to toe. I can feel the weight of a gaze following me. Nothing as cold and lethal as a hidden killer. No, it’s that of a small animal, breathing slowly and shallowly.
Come on, my little fawn. I’m ready.
“Mr. Tolyan.”
Ah. There. I make sure to erase my small smile and set my face into a placid expression before turning to face her.
She’s a little wan. There are beads of sweat along her hairline, although it isn’t particularly hot in the garage. Her hands are quivering—probably with nerves. She doesn’t seem to realize they aren’t steady. Most people hide their hands or curl them into fists to hide that reaction.
“Mr. Tolyan,” she says again.
“Tolyan is fine.” Mr. Tolyan makes me sound like my grandfather. I’m far too young for that.
“Okay. Tolyan, I need your help.”
