When we’re done, I dry her in a big fluffy towel. Marlowe keeps starting conversations, but I make her get in bed where I feed her a glass of whiskey this time. I sit on top of the covers, going through my phone. I need to not get under those covers. I need to have a level head.
There’s something bigger here, I know it.
But I lie next to her on the top of the covers, thinking things through. And somewhere in the middle of it, I fall asleep.
“Declan?”
I sit up straight, naked, I look around, startled. If that Clawzilla’s up to something, then?—
Oh shit. I’m not home, and that’s Marlowe speaking.
Fear’s in her voice.
My heart pounds and I’m suddenly wide awake. I pull on my pants and look around. There are no visible threats, but she stands at her ballet bag holding a small box. Silver wrapping paper sits on the small table.
And she’s shaking.
“Molly?” I walk over to her.
Fuck.
Now I see why she’s shaking where she stands next to an end table.
In a small white box, nestled in tissue paper, is a tiny bird.
And it’s dead.
TEN
marlowe
I try hard notto shake but fail. I’d picked up the small box, thinking it was a gift and not expecting to find…
A sob catches in my throat.
The poor little bird inside is dead, and some sicko went to the effort to put it in a box, wrap it in tissue paper, then…
“Declan,” I whisper, voice scratchy.
I don’t know what to say or do. How am I supposed to read this sick, twisted thing? Who the hell would even do this? Someone demented, someone disturbed.
Someone out to scare me.
It worked.
I’m terrified, because I’ve only gotten cards, cheap jewelry, scarves, teddy bears, and dance figurines from this “fan” of mine.
“Why…” I swallow hard. “Why would someone send me this?”
“Someone thinks you’re special, Marlowe.”
That makes no sense.
“I’m not special,” I say, clutching the small box. “All the dancers get their fair share of flowers,cards, and gifts.”
“Dead birds, too?”
He takes it from me, looks at it, and puts it down.
