“Let me call Damian,” Griff repeats. “We can try the others if he can’t help. Nobody touch that box, though.”
I sit blankly, occasionally sipping water just as a reminder that I exist and can function—barely—listening to Griff explain the situation to Damian, whose shock is audible even though the phone’s not on speaker.
“Kane’s calling his manager now,” Griff tells me. “Damian wants to know if we want them to come.”
As kind as the offer is, the thought of more people here makes my stomach clench, but I can’t quite shake my head, so I just sit there, blank and miserable. Griff studies my face for a moment, then says into the phone, “Thanks, Damian, but not right now. Oh? That’s great, thank you.” He covers the mouthpiece and asks Calla, “What’s the address here?”
Once that’s been relayed, he adds, “You can give him my number. Text when you know—okay, that’s perfect. We appreciate this, Damian.” He ends the call. “Kane’s manager is calling a detective who handled one of her other clients’ stalking case. She thought it might smooth the way to have her call, and she’ll let us know when to expect the detective.”
“That’s good,” Butch says. “That’s good.” She lets out a shaky breath, then comes to sit on my other side.
With Griff still kneeling in front of me and the back of the couch behind me, I’m surrounded, buffered. It both helps and worsens my anxiety right now.
And then someone takes the glass of water from my hand, replacing it with a mug of steaming, fragrant tea. I look up at Harold’s worried face, wishing I could thank him, but he’s stepping away, Blaise taking his place and offering… a pair of noise-cancelling headphones.
Tears flood my eyes. I want those headphones so bad, want the sharp edges of uncontrolled noise to be gone, but the mug is in one hand and Griff’s holding the other one. I can’t let go of Griff, not right now. I think he’s the only reason I can still breathe right now.
“Let me help,” Calla offers. She takes the headphones and gently puts them on my head, adjusting them until they’re perfect. “Music?” she asks, her voice muffled already. “Or meditation?” She holds out her hand for Blaise’s phone, and seconds later, the sound of leaves rustling and chimes tinkling fills my head, and part of my brain begins to calm.
I can get through this. My boyfriend is here. My friends are here. I have support; I’m not alone. Whoever sent me that box isn’t going to get to me. Sticking a knife through a doll with my face on it is the closest they’ll ever come.
I cling to that thought and sip my tea.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
GRIFF
The only thingkeeping my rage at bay right now is the fact that Phil needs me. He doesn’t need me yelling and screaming or racing off half-cocked to enact vengeance on some unidentified creep. He needs me here, or at least nearby, running interference with the cop who’ll want to talk to him, and… something.
Fuck, I really wish I could dosomethingto make this better.
My phone beeps with a text, and I check it. “The detective will be here in about an hour,” I report, keeping my voice low so it doesn’t bother Phil. At one point, I was afraid he was going to become catatonic, but he’s responsive. Right now, he’s staring into space, his face haunted in a way I hate, methodically sipping his tea at regular intervals, almost like a tic.
I glance over at Harold. “Could you make sure he doesn’t run out of that tea?”
He looks confused, but shrugs. “Sure.”
“He might not want it, but if he does?—”
“Griff, chill. I got this.” He heads for the kitchen.
“Got anything for me to do?” Xera asks. “I feel useless right now.”
I hesitate. “Well…”
“Anything, Griff,” Blaise says. “We’d do anything for Phil.”
“Would one of you mind going to get my dog? She might not help, but Phil likes cuddling her, and?—”
“Say no more.” Xera’s already up, keys in hand. “Dogs are comforting. If Phil doesn’t want cuddles right now, I’ll take them. What’s the address?”
I give it to her, and then as she and Butch leave, I call Bettina and let her know someone’s coming to pick up Vivi.
“Here.” Calla slips out of her seat beside Phil and gestures for me to sit there. “Move before your knees go out or your legs cramp.”
I obey gratefully because my feet were starting to go tingly and numb. Much like the hand Phil’s holding is. I’m pretty sure it’s going to be bruised tomorrow, he’s clinging that tightly, but nothing in this world could make me ask him to let go.
Someone put his face on a fucking doll and stuck a knife through it.
