No one touches what’s mine.
This is the final gift, I think. The culmination of the past weeks… the takeout, the book, the jewelry, the flowers. This is him staking his claim.
It’s a much more violent, bloodier claim than the one Richard tried to stake on me last night. But this feels different.
I’m terrified. But I don’t feel violated.
I feel… protected. Avenged.
He still broke into my apartment. Left me a rose. That’s a violation, of my space, if not my body. What am I thinking?
I’m thinking that whatever lines he might have crossed, he got my revenge for me, a revenge I couldn’t have taken, not like this. He cut off Richard Maxwell's hand and left it at my door like a promise, a strange token of courtship.
I stand there in the kitchen, frozen, holding a card from a man who just committed a violent crime on my behalf, and part of me is thrilled.
The other part of me knows I need to call the police, if only because this crime is going to be reported, and after I was seen slapping Richard last night in public, I can’t hide something like this.
I should give them the card, too. They might be able to trace the handwriting.This, at least, could be construed as a threat, even if I don’t see it as one. This will make them take the break-in seriously.
I walk to the sink slowly, and stare at the card for a long moment. Then, before I can stop myself, I reach for a lighter in the nearest drawer.
Clicking the flame to life, I hold it to the edge of the card and watch it start to blacken and curl. I can’t seem to let go of it until the flame has burned mostly through it, almost reaching my fingers, and then I drop it quickly, turning on the water to wash the ashes down the drain.
I just destroyed evidence.
I feel unmoored, unhinged. Slightly loopy, as if the lack of sleep and the stress is making me constantly drunk. I feel like I could either start crying or laughing hysterically at any moment.
Slowly, as if in a dream, I go to get my phone and call the police station for the second time in as many days.
When the dispatcher answers, it takes me a moment to speak. "There's a—" My voice breaks. I try again. "Someone left a box with a severed hand. Outside my apartment. I brought it in. I?—"
The operator's voice is remarkably calm. "Ma'am, I need you to stay on the line. Don't touch anything else. Officers are on their way. Can you tell me your address?"
I give it to her, then sink down onto my couch, the phone still pressed to my ear, and wait. I can see the box from where I’m sitting, the evidence of violence committed for me, on my behalf.
I feel as if I’ve crossed into another dimension. Another life.
And I’m not sure if I’m ever going to find my way back.
10
ILYA
The news anchor's voice is professionally somber as she delivers the story, her expression carefully fixed to avoid any sign of emotion as she relays the gruesome story on the morning news.
"Prominent art collector Richard Maxwell was found early this morning in his Upper East Side apartment, the victim of what police are calling a brutal assault. The fifty-three-year-old was discovered by his wife, barely alive and missing his left hand. He remains in critical condition at Mount Sinai Hospital."
Satisfaction wells in my chest as I watch, a smile twisting my mouth. Soon, Mara will find her gift. She’ll call the police, I’m sure of that, but that’s easily handled.
Kazimir is standing behind me. He was there last night, when I went to pay Maxwell a visit. I could tell he disapproved then, and I can feel that same disapproval wafting off of him now.
The screen cuts to footage of Hartley's building. Police tape cordons off the entrance. Uniformed officers stand guard while detectives come and go, their faces grim.
"Hartley, a well-known figure in Manhattan's art world, has been a major collector for over two decades," the anchorcontinues. "Police have not identified any suspects and are asking anyone with information to come forward. The motive for the attack remains unclear."
Kazimir shifts behind me. I know he wants to speak, but he’s holding back. Remaining loyal, even though he disagrees with my actions.
"Authorities say there were no signs of forced entry," the anchor says. "We'll continue to follow this developing story."
