I stared at the chewed cord. I had a spare in my apartment—across the hall. My stomach tightened at the thought. The stalker was still out there. Six feet of hallway had never felt so exposed.
“This is ridiculous.” I squared my shoulders. “It’s broad daylight. You’re going across the hall to your own apartment for two minutes. Nothing is going to happen.”
I told myself that going across the hall would be the healthiest thing for me. Fear responses after trauma are normal, but avoiding them only reinforces the anxiety. This would be a small, controlled exposure to my fear. Perfect for rebuilding my confidence.
It was the exact advice I’d give my listeners.
I grabbed my keys from the hook by the door, took a deep breath, and turned the deadbolt. The click sounded obscenelyloud in the quiet apartment. My hand trembled on the doorknob.
“Six feet, grab the cord, sprint back. Thirty seconds, tops.”
I pulled open the door and froze. A medium-sized cardboard box sat in front of my apartment, the address label handwritten. My heart slammed against my ribs. I couldn’t breathe. Images flooded my mind—snakes, spiders, worse things slithering inside, waiting. “No.” I backed into the loft, slamming the door and twisting the deadbolt with shaking hands. “Nope. Not happening.” I pressed my back against the door, trying to slow my breathing.
My rational mind tried to break through the panic. It could be anything—shoes I’d ordered during a late-night online shopping spree, podcast equipment, a gift from Ryker. The handwriting looked ordinary enough.
But so had the snake box.
I stood paralyzed, my keys digging into my palm where I’d clenched my fist around them. What would Troy do? What would Rhett tell me? Their voices filled my head: Don’t be a hero, Aims. Call for backup.
I slid down against the door until I hit the floor, my heart hammering. Olive appeared from wherever she’d been napping, chirping as she padded over to investigate my distress.
“I’m fine.” I wasn’t. “Just your human mom having a completely rational freakout over a cardboard box.”
Olive tilted her head.
“Fuck. What would I tell a listener to do right now?”
The answer came instantly:ask for help. It doesn’t make you weak; it makes you smart.
I dug through my purse with trembling hands, finding my phone and pulling up Detective Joyce’s number. Three weeks ago, I wouldn’t have even had a detective’s direct line in my contacts. Now it was practically on speed dial.
She answered on the second ring, and the words spilled out before I could stop them. “There’s a package in front of my apartment. I’m staying across the hall at my—at my friends’ place. The handwriting looks like the snake box.”
“Don’t touch it.” Her tone made it clear she was serious. “We’ll be there in twenty with Lu. Sit tight. Where are you right now?”
“In the apartment across the hall.”
“Good. Stay there, lock and bolt the doors. Sit tight.”
After we hung up, I opened the group chat with the guys, debating how much I should tell them. They needed the truth.
Hey guys, hope work is going well.
Just wanted to let you know there’s a package outside my apartment door. Called Detective Joyce. I’m safe in your place. Don’t panic. Police are on their way.
I added a heart emoji, deleted it before hitting send. My therapist would have a field day with that moment of emotional constipation.
Cheeto and Olive both climbed into my lap, purring as I stroked their soft fur. They were getting bigger already, less kitten-like with each passing day.
“You guys are terrible attack cats,” I said, scratching under Cheeto’s chin as he stretched luxuriously. “I guess we can call you emotional support pets, though.”
Cheeto responded by rolling onto his back, exposing his belly and demanding scratches.
“I know. You’re right. It’s okay to trust people sometimes. To need them.” I pulled out my phone and added another text:
Miss you both. Be safe at work.
This time, I left the heart emoji.
