by A. C. Dillon
"Let me drool, please."
"Huh? Oh!" Autumn thrust out her hand, unable to resist staring at it herself. "It's heavy. I don't wear jewelry."
"You'll get over it," Veronica promised. "God, this is just gorgeous. Simple setting. No fuss. The diamond knows it's the star of the show. I like your style, Daniels."
Andrew laughed. "Well, I'm glad you approve. And before you start in, the wedding is waiting for at least a year, maybe two. We're not planning a damn thing for a while."
"Don't plan. Elope with your closest and most gorgeous friends," Veronica quipped, leaning against her dressing table. "Weddings are a clusterfuck. My cousin got married last month and it was a nightmare of vendor troubles and alterations gone wrong. People crashed, people fought... She did the traditional 'invite the entire fam' and she hated it."
"We'll take it under advisement," Autumn interjected, looking to steer her overly enthusiastic friend off-topic. "Do you have to do stage door, or are we bailing?"
Veronica mulled this over, ultimately heaving a sigh. "I'll do a quick run, dash out a few autographs for the die-hards. Tuesday is usually a slow night out there, anyway. But first, I want to see my present!"
"Present?"
Veronica gestured behind Autumn to a carefully wrapped box on a table. "My present. You really didn't have to bring me anything, you know. The best things in life are free and all that jazz."
Exchanging a nervous look with Autumn, Andrew frowned. "We didn't bring that, V. It was already here when we arrived."
Puzzled, Veronica moved past them, sticking her head out of her door and calling for a man named Jose, who was apparently in charge of the backstage area. He arrived swiftly, perhaps sensing the anxiety in her voice. Gesturing to the table, she asked him to explain.
"Explain what, Ms. St. Clair?"
"The package. It would have had to go through you or your staff. When was it delivered? There doesn't seem to be a tag on it."
Jose shook his head. "Nothing was delivered tonight through the typical channels."
"And my room was locked during the performance, as usual?" Veronica demanded.
"Of course." Understanding the seriousness of the matter, he ushered the three of them away from the box, calling for support from his team on an ear piece. "You are not expecting any parcels or gifts?"
"Nothing I want," Veronica evaded.
"My team advises that no one was authorized for a delivery to this room. I'm going to have to suggest we contact the police, as a precaution. Particularly in light of the circumstances," Jose added, narrowing his gaze.
"V? What's going on?"
Turning to Autumn, Veronica slumped against the wall. "So, um... I might have a little problem..."
SIX
Seated two hours later around the small dining table in Veronica's apartment, Autumn studied the surface with a lump in her throat.
"This is scary, V. When did it start?"
Veronica sighed, handing Autumn a well-worn envelope. "Opening night, the letters began. This one seemed benign enough. Huge Broadway fan, excited for the production, break a leg, etc. I got several just like it during rehearsals. Some of them get a little fresh; some are downright kinky. But most of the fan mail has been general appreciation or actors wondering how I nailed this role out of high school. I respond to the ones I feel like, and they're sent through a mail service. But this guy... He just keeps going."
Twenty letters, by Autumn's count. More letters than days since the preview run of In the Garden to date. She'd always known that famous people earned their share of odd or unusually obsessive attention, but this was beyond fanaticism.
"The security team was added after a letter was found in my dressing room, describing my bra from the previous night," Veronica admitted reluctantly.
"Jesus!" Andrew’s anger caught both women off-guard. "How in the hell would this guy know that?"
"I don't know. They swept my room for recording devices. They asked me to not bring my laptop, just in case this guy was hacking my webcam somehow. I... I don't know. I mean, crazy letters are a rite of passage in the business, but this guy..." Veronica shuddered, reaching for her tea. "I'm getting worried now."
"Have the police seen these?" Autumn asked.
"They didn't really care. Didn't even bother to come take a report until tonight's little surprise," she added bitterly. "How did the lovely asshole put it? Oh, yes: 'What did you expect, sweetheart? Welcome to Broadway.' I'm pretty sure he added a silent, 'Nice tits' in there."
"Son of a bitch," Andrew muttered. "On behalf of the douchebags of my gender, I'm so sorry."
"No one deserves this," Autumn mumbled, reaching for another letter. "Please tell me you don't read these?"
Veronica grimaced. "I can't help myself. It's morbid curiosity. I have to know what the creeper knows. What he's thinking... And he knows it."
Gingerly holding the closest letter, Autumn read it silently, her stomach drawing into a taut ball of terror with every sentence.
Veronica darling,
You were especially radiant tonight on stage. You excel at your role, but on this particular night, you seemed to give a more energetic performance than ever before. Was there a special moment in your day, perhaps? Did you awaken in the arms of that Parsons bastard? Did you allow him to slip between your thighs, a slithering serpent corrupting your own garden?
No. No, of course you didn't. Because you have a love, or so you profess. And yet, he isn't here for you, is he? He's not even in this country. How can he possibly shield you from the storm of publicity? How can he possibly appreciate the eloquence with which your body moves beneath the lights? Heavenly you are, my angel. I imagine you taste just as heavenly.
Fall from the Garden. Fall unto me. Aren't you tired of serpentine lies? Don't you long to be with someone who truly appreciates your hard work and dedication to your craft?
No, Parsons may look, but he will never touch you. He will never pause to wonder at the delicate trio of freckles upon your thigh. A holy trinity, my Angel. You are blessed, as am I to know your truth.
Soon, you will know mine.
Autumn thought back to many sleepovers in her dorm, to the way Veronica loved to mock her freckles and how they formed triangles on her body—including her left upper thigh. He was too close to her. Too knowledgeable.
Autumn tossed the letter on the table in disgust. "Someone has to do something, V. This is no fucking joke."
"There's nothing they can do. The letters are being hand delivered, so there's no tracing them to a post office. The theatre recently installed security cameras, but their coverage is abysmal at best. I checked it out tonight with that cop, Officer Dumbass or whatever."
"Dumas, I think," Andrew corrected her.
"Whatever. He was useless. Maybe I like shoes, but buying me the Christian Louboutins I was eyeing a week ago in a store is not cute, or nice. It's terrifying!" Veronica's forehead thumped against the table in frustration. "What can I possibly do?"
"Hire a bodyguard," Andrew suggested.
Veronica laughed sarcastically. "With what money to spare? Broadway pays, but I'm a newbie. I make the Equity minimum for my role, Andrew."
"With my money, for now," Andrew replied calmly. "Although really, given how much of a media draw you've become, the production should be footing the bill. You have an agent, right? Let them negotiate it."
At Veronica's confused stare, Autumn jumped in. "Andrew has a trust fund. A big one. He can afford it. It's the least we can do."
"Maybe... I want to think about it." Draining her mug, she gestured to her friends. "Did you want another round? I've got a killer chamomile," she joked weakly.
Autumn rose slowly from the table. "I think you should get some sleep. And tomorrow, I will personally ensure the cops do something about all of this. Is Gabriel coming home soon?"
"Mmhmm. His latest hottie is out of town visiting relatives."
"Good. Keep the door locked until he does."
&
nbsp; Veronica shrugged her shoulders sadly. "I'm really sorry all this happened on your special day. It's definitely not what I meant by celebration."
"No apologies needed," Andrew insisted. "I'll look into personal security tomorrow, no arguments."
"Thank you. I'm so glad you're here. It's been lonely the last few weeks..."
Veronica's voice trailed off, her mind clearly consumed by the disturbing collection on display. Autumn sensed the letters, unfolded and ordered, were more daunting en masse than they had been as they arrived, one by one. With a farewell embrace, she reluctantly left her friend alone to ruminate, netting a promise that she would call if anything unusual happened, day or night.
On the ride back to the hotel, Autumn found herself replaying the contents of the four letters she'd read, studying word patterns, phrases, and details too true to be ignored. There had to be something between the lines, some clue to the identity of the stalker. And that was what he was: a stalker. The shoes he'd purchased for Veronica were proof that he wasn't merely watching her perform; he was watching her, full stop. Someone with that amount of time on his hands couldn't be trusted to stop at overly sexual love letters and pricey footwear. Sooner or later, he'd want to confront her.
Thinking of the stage door meet and greets that were customary in the theatre world, Autumn felt nauseous. Maybe he's already met her. In the light of morning, she'd ask Veronica to think carefully about her interactions with fans, see if any of them stood out in a bad way.
Wait, no, I can't. Not right away. She had her meeting with her editor first thing in the morning to review initial feedback on her book. But after the publisher pow-wow, she'd look into security with Andrew and probe Veronica on the people loitering after shows.
"You're worried about her."
Autumn glanced up, startled by Andrew's words.
"I know, stating the obvious," he continued. "What I mean is, I'm worried too. It's not just me."
"No. No, it's not," Autumn replied quietly.
"We'll look after her," he promised. “Because this isn't right. This guy's escalating. You see it too, don't you?"
"But will she listen?"
"To you? Yes. But she's not stupid. Veronica knows that tonight took things to a whole new level of disturbing. Let it sink in; tomorrow, she'll see things more clearly."
"I hope so."
The cab pulled up to their hotel and Andrew quickly paid him, tipping more than perhaps he'd intended in his rush to head inside. His grip on Autumn's hand was unusually firm, reminding her of the days she'd had to testify against their former instructor.
"I'm fine, Andrew," she insisted quietly, running her thumb over his hand in light figure-eights.
With a forced smile, he jammed the elevator call button. "I know. I can't help it, alright?"
"As long as you know... Oh God, I'm a moron. You know who we should ask about security? My dad."
Stepping into the elevator, Andrew groaned. "Of course. He's only one of the highest ranking security personnel for one of the largest banks in Canada. How did I not think of it?"
"Hey, he's my dad. I didn't think of it."
"Drop him a quick email when we get in. I'll order up some late-night comfort food."
"I approve of this plan."
Swiping into their suite, Andrew made quick work of ordering half of the desserts on the late-night menu, along with fries and an order of macaroni and cheese. Autumn flopped on the bed, opening her laptop and shooting off a quick email to her father that was vague, but provided everything that would keep him from panicking—I'm fine, Andrew's fine, but we need information on bodyguards was the basic gist.
A knock on their suite door reminded her of the forthcoming comfort food buffet and she moved to shut her computer down, pausing as a new message alert popped up. Checking her inbox, she gritted her teeth at the subject line.
Google Alert: Veronica St. Clair
Tentatively, she opened the email, immediately regretting it. "Shit!"
"You okay?"
"I'm fine, Andrew. I just really hate the media, that's all." Clicking the link, she hissed angrily at the title of an article from a popular Broadway gossip blog.
She heard a quiet exchange of voices, a door shutting, a bolt being flipped into place. Spinning her laptop around, she waited for Andrew to investigate. Clearly, her face told the story of the latest miserable turn of events.
"Is that what I think it is?"
"If you think it's the story of Veronica's stalker leaking on the go-to site for Broadway dirt, you'd be correct." Autumn grimaced, slamming the laptop shut. "I'm not going to worry about it tonight. Tomorrow, we'll all deal together. The Three Musketeers."
Andrew gestured to the tray of food near the door. "Cheesecake or chocolate mousse?"
"Yes, please."
With a tousle of her hair, Andrew bent forward to kiss her cheek. "That's my girl."
* * *
Two days. He hadn't slept in two days, and it was fast approaching a third night without respite.
Cursing under his breath as he was killed yet again in a round of Call of Duty, Evan tossed the controller aside and punched the power button on his Xbox. Screw it. There had to be something mindless on Netflix to watch. Something with misery and a lack of romance. No songs. No musical numbers. No blondes with shy smiles, beckoning him from bed at two in the morning for a rendezvous near the pond.
There would be no Veronica St. Clair tonight. He simply couldn't cope with it.
And yet, here he was, at his goddamn computer, not to pull up a downloaded movie or chat about the latest news in baseball. No, he was Googling her name again, wondering how she was. Where she was. Wondering who was at her side now, replacing him.
Evan hadn't been able to reconcile the woman he knew with the woman who broke up with him on the phone a scant two weeks ago. The woman he'd fallen for was surprisingly quiet and serene, when tucked away from the adoring masses and her beloved stage. Veronica loved attention, but she also appreciated the comfortable silence shared between two people in perfect synchronicity. She loved to read books on weekends, sprawled by her pool with a bottle of sunscreen at her side.
"When I'm wealthy and fabulous," she would tell him, "I'm going to buy first editions of every single one of my favourite books. I'm going to have the most bad-ass library in the universe."
"But you wouldn't be able to read them without risking damage," he'd argue from the pool.
"That's why I'll also have them on my Kindle. Problem solved, babe."
Her attention to the little things—his favourite colour, or the precise way he liked his eggs cooked—was what made her so charming. She loved knowing every quirk about her friends and family, taking pride in always securing the best Christmas and birthday gifts. Evan remembered briefly mentioning some collector's item related to Battlestar Galactica while drunk; six months later, she'd delivered it on his birthday.
Devotion. Veronica was a devoted person. So how could she have decided that he wasn't worth dating long distance? How could she have missed that he would wait for her, that small moments in time to cherish were better than not having her in his life at all? This was what kept Evan up at night, often weeping when the delirium of exhaustion seized control. Doesn't she know me?
He thought she did. He thought he'd known her too.
He took a stroll through his bookmarks, pulling up early reviews of In the Garden, smiling to himself as each and every one praised the talents of Broadway newcomer Veronica St. Clair. She was right where she belonged, shining brighter than the stars in the sky. She had stumbled onto her big break and like a movie, she'd been living her dreams.
She was so very high. And Evan? He was stuck on earth, torn between the woman he knew—a woman worth fighting for—and the woman who'd broken his heart.
Ah, TMZ. He resisted the urge to click on the trash masquerading as news. Zachary Parsons was a teenybopper dream, but there was no way Veronica had given him a moment of her time. Guy
s like Parsons were shot down on the regular at Casteel, usually with a scathing insult directed at their lacking manhood or ignorant behaviour. She just couldn't be seeing the guy...
But what if she is?
No, no, she wasn't. Evan absently scrolled through his Facebook feed in search of a mundane Buzzfeed bullshit quiz to kill time. He told himself it wasn't to look for her. It wasn't to scope Autumn's page for any hints of her New York trip. Just passing through, like any teen with the attention span of a fruit fly.
A private message alert popped up and Evan startled, glancing over at the clock. Who the hell is up at two in the morning on a Tuesday? Curious, perhaps hopeful that it was Veronica, he clicked to open it.
Well, it was about Veronica. The sender, however, was Keenan Hall.
Dude, what the hell is going on with Veronica? Have you heard about this shit?
The shit in question: an "anonymous source connected to the production" claimed to have information about a police investigation concerning the starlet. Leaning forward, blinking hard to clear his vision, Evan read on, his heart beginning to race. Veronica had been receiving a series of unusual letters at the theatre from a mystery admirer, so the story went. They were calling him a stalker.
A stalker...
Apparently, police were called when an unwanted gift arrived backstage, without any witness to its delivery. The more Evan read, the more he understood that it was fate that kept him awake tonight. This was his cue to act.
Opening a new tab, he booked a last minute ticket on a plane to New York. His parents would be pissed, but he'd sort that out when he returned. Besides, what good were his university savings when he couldn't be bothered to attend?
Money could be earned again. Veronica needed him, whether she cared to admit it or not.
Quickly, he tapped out a reply to Keenan. I'm going to find out.
A suitcase was packed, clothes shoved in haphazardly, his computer tucked into his messenger bag. Sleep. Evan was overcome with a sense of peace, one he hadn't known for some time. Veronica. One way or another, he had to see her, confront her. If it was truly over, he would accept it, but only if she could look him in the eye and explain it.
