I narrow my eyes at Calla so she knows I mean her, though nowadays it applies to Griff as well. He reads my message aloud, and tears start to track down Calla’s face.
“I know, but… who would do this? I don’t understand.”
Blaise pulls her a little closer, tightening his arm around her. “None of us do.”
“Mr. Marchand, I’m Detective Tyrone Spears with the LAPD,” he says directly to me, his voice low and steady. “I’msorry this has happened to you, and I promise to do everything I can to resolve this situation.”
I muster a weak smile, not much more than a twitch of my mouth, and type.
Thank you. Call me Phil.
I hate being called Mr. Marchand. It makes me think of my dad, and that’s not going to settle my anxiety.
Griff relays my comment, and Detective Spears nods. “Phil, then. Could I confirm that you haven’t received any threatening letters, emails, or messages?”
I shake my head.
“Okay. What about verbal threats? Has anyone said anything?—”
He stops because I’m shaking my head again.
“What about fan mail?”
I’m still shaking my head, but stop abruptly as his question sinks in. Huh?
“Fan mail?” Polly repeats. “What do you mean?”
Spears is still looking at me. “Has anyone sent you anything to say they admire you or your work? Stalkers rarely start out with threats and aggression. It’s possible this person has been escalating over time.”
My brain is struggling to process that. I don’t really have fans. Not yet, anyway. That’s the dream, that one day people will be fans of my work, but for now, I have clients and a desire for the fashion media to notice me.
Griff sucks in a breath. “There was that email you told me about. Someone who said they normally didn’t like designs like yours, but they weren’t too bad? Or something like that.”
I blink at him. Maybe… yes?
“What email?” Calla asks. “When was this?”
The memory clicks into place, and I open my email app to search for it. I don’t usually keep unimportant emails, so I’ve probably deleted it, but I’m sure I sent a reply. The email thread is probably in my Sent items.
It takes a minute of scrolling back and forth, but finally I find it and hold out my phone. Calla reaches for it, then hesitates and lets Spears take it instead.
His eyes move as he reads it, and then he glances up at me. “Can I forward this to myself?”
I nod, and when he hands me back my phone a moment later, I tap out a message and show Griff.
“She sent you a card as well?”
“Do you still have it?” Spears asks sharply, and I nod again and type a reply.
“Kyle has it,” Griff reads, then tells Spears, “He’s the receptionist at Phallacy. Do you remember what the card said, Phil?”
I shake my head.
Another backhanded compliment. Kyle couldn’t believe how shady it was.
“I’ll need Kyle’s details,” Spears says. “Though I can probably wait to interview him until Monday. Ms. Gardner, would you be able to let me into the office to look for this card? I’d prefer to take it into evidence sooner than later.”
“Of course,” Calla says, a little shakily, and I feel a stab of guilt that she’s getting stuck with this. I want to object, to insist I’ll go instead, but I… can’t. I’m honestly on the verge of a shutdown just sitting here talking about this whole mess.
