Rabid stalker fan tricks Jonas Rutherford into his final demise at the spot where he asked his ex-wife on their first date.
I slowly push the ginger ale back, hoping it’s not poisoned. I saw her open the can. I saw her take the bread out of the bag.
I don’t think any of this is poisoned.
I hope.
Emma—if that’s her real name—squirms in her chair, then rises. “All I mean is that this will be a lot easier if you just leave so I don’t have to deal with...” She flaps both hands in my direction, clearly indicatingso I don’t have to deal with you.
I feel like I’m reading this wrong, but then, my brain is operating on last night’s whiskey and three months of divorce hell. “Is that… a threat?”
Her pale brows wrinkle together. “A—what?”
“Did you help me get back here last night? Were we drinking together?”
“I haven’t left here since I arrived on Sunday other than to go to the beach.”
Sunday.
Today’s—fuck me. I don’t know what day today is.
“Today’s Thursday,” she says.
Is it? Is it really? “Isgo to the beacha code word?”
She squeezes her eyes shut and mutters something I can’t understand as she glances at the door.
And she doesn’t try to stop me when I reach into my pocket for my phone and verify that it, too, says on my home page that today is Thursday.
It also says I’ve missed seven text messages from my mother, three from my brother, and one from his girlfriend.
I cast a covert glance at Emma.
She’s grabbing sunglasses even though it’s barely light outside, and I’m realizing that paranoia is not my friend, no matter how much it claims to be when I drink too much.
She’s trying to get rid of me.
Not thebadway though. “You don’t want me here.”
She grimaces. “Any other year, any other circumstances…I’m a happy person. I am. And hereyouare, and hereIam, andI cannot be happy about this. Do you haveanyidea howaggravating it is to have your celebrity crushsitting at your dining room tablewith timing likethis?”
“I—ah—no.”
She blows a big breath out of her nose and rubs her forehead. “Of course you don’t. Sorry. No,not sorry. Something else. Pretend I said something else that’s notsorrybut also expresses my regret—no, not my regret. Myacknowledgmentthat this isunfortunate.”
My pulse slows and the panic recedes.
She knows who I am.
She says she likes me.
And she’s clearly having a rough time.
I don’t think I’m in danger. I think she’s having a bad day.
Ihopeshe’s having a bad day.
Not that I wish bad days on people. More that it’s better for her to be weird because of a bad day than because she’s planning on murdering me.
