I pace back and forth, resisting the idea of touching the box, opening it, even looking at it, but what can I do?What can I do?If I don’t open it, maybe that’s what makes him kill again. Maybe that’s what sends him over the edge, as if he’s not already there. I step around the damn box, unlock the door, and draw in a hard-earned breath. Pressing fingers to my forehead, I accept what cannot be avoided. I rotate and pick up the box, which is larger than the last, heavier, too, and struggle to lug it inside. I dump my purse and the box on the kitchen island, with my phone next to both.
“Oh my God, I might have to become a drinker,” I murmur, willing my heart to stop trying to jump out of my chest. I swear I’d go see a doctor and ask for some good drugs to calm me down—I really need help right now, truly, I do—but Adam might kill him or her as well. Too queasy to consider wine anyway, I just stand there, staring at the box. There is also a lot of running fingers through my hair and pressing my hands onto my face. Finally I just do it. I work the ribbon off the box, puff out a breath, and lift the lid.
There don’t appear to be any obvious body parts inside.
This only delivers a small degree of relief.
There’s a bottle of champagne and another box inside. Who knows what is in that box. Of course there is a card on top of it all that simply reads: “Mia.”
Oh, how I wish this man would forget my name. The Invisible Girl was so much kinder to me than this man knowing my name. Myhand trembles as I reach for the card, and somehow I manage to open it to read:
The champagne is to toast a new beginning, your new beginning. The dress is for you to wear tomorrow. It will look beautiful on you. Move forward, Mia. Show me you can do this for yourself, so I don’t have to do it for you.
Call me.
—Adam
Okay, so the unopened box is also not a body part. There is that. I grab hold of the small reprieve from my worst fear and cling to it.
The champagne is Veuve Clicquot, my favorite, which he knows because I told him. I told him so much,too much, about myself. And what are we celebrating? My new beginning? What does that even mean at this point? What did killing off my ex-boyfriend do for this new beginning? I mean, sure, he was an asshole, but the world is filled with assholes. Life goes on.
Except for Kevin.
He’s gone.
Forever.
I literally force myself to reach for the second box, which I set on the island next to the bigger box. I lift the lid to find an olive-and-black-and-white tweed dress with diamond shapes mixing up the colors. There’s a matching thick black belt. There are boots to match. Expensive boots. I can tell just from looking at them. I check the labels. The dress. The boots. The belt. They all bear the Chanel brand. And they’re beautiful—truly they are—but I would feel ugly wearing them, wearing anything this man gifted me. Not only that—Jess would know Chanel from a mile away.
How would I explain owning items I cannot afford?
My cellphone rings, and I all but jump out of my skin. The caller ID, of course, reads “Adam.” Why do I even have his name still in my caller ID? But then, what do I call him? Killer? Crazy man? Stalker? I could delete him altogether, but obviously that will do me no good. He’ll call. I could block him. Then he might just kill again, maybe even me.
With that thought, I grab my phone, hit the record button, and answer on speaker. “Hello.”
“You got the gifts I left?” he asks.
My lips press together. I’m no fool. This is his way of telling me that he knows I’m home right now. “Stalker” might just be the right name for him after all. “I just opened the boxes,” I confirm. “It’s too much, Adam. I can’t accept such expensive gifts.”
“I told you, Mia, I’m going to help you change your life.”
By killing people?I want to scream at him, but he’s already talking again.
“The shock you just went through was necessary,” he states. “Just like my car accident was for me. This was,is, supposed to push you forward, not push you backward. You take control. Then I won’t have to take it for you. Understand?”
It’s not a gentle question. It’s not a question at all. It’s a demand. “I’m taking control of my life, Adam,” I assure him, mustering a strong voice I barely know as my own. “I don’t need you to do this for me.”
“Wear the outfit tomorrow. Wear your hair down. Show me you’re in control. Show me you know you’re worthy.”
I want to ask—worthy of what?—but my gut says that is one of those pass/fail questions that ends in me being given a big fat fail. “My friend Jess will know Chanel from a mile away.”
“Good. You deserve it. If she’s a good friend, she’ll think so as well.”
“She knows I can’t afford it.”
“Tell her you have a new boyfriend.”
“She’ll want to meet you,” I counter.
