“Well, then, I look forward to getting to the ... root ... of this problem we seem to be having.”
“Is that another dentist joke?” I ask, trying to understand what he’s saying.
“I’m an oral surgeon,” he corrects me. “It’ll only hurt for a second.”
“That’s it. Out. Get out. Here, take the flowers too. I don’t want them.”
I shove the flowers into his chest and push him a couple of feet away from the door.
With more steam bursting through me, I hurry up the stairs toward the bathroom before there’s another knock or ring.
It doesn’t take long to settle myself into what will hopefully be a relaxing bath. I turn the volume of my music to high and steam up the room.
Ten deep breaths.
Ten.
And a note is slipped beneath the closed door before the bubbles even cover my waist. This note better be from Kricket or Krow.
Nope. Not opening it. Not reading it. I’m ignoring the world right now.
I locked all the doors in the house before coming upstairs.
What if someone other than Kricket or Krow is inside the house? Kricket will handle it. Just like she man-handled Tristan earlier. Nothing to worry about.
I close my eyes trying to push the thoughts away. No one is in the house. It was one of the girls. Ignore it. Let it go. Focus on the ocean, the blue sky, the slight breeze. It’s beautiful—nothing else to think about.
A fist bangs against the door.
Nope.
I’m not answering.
There is another bathroom downstairs.
Another knock.
“What?” I shout.
Another note.
“I’m not reading your notes!”
After another three notes and five rounds of knocking, I end my bath and redress in the clothes I had on. I was going to walk across the hall in a towel to get new clothes, but I don’t feel like that’s a good idea right now.
I collect the envelopes and whip open the door, finding no one in the hallway. I glance down the stairs, but I’m not so lucky to find the space empty .
I jog down the stairs, holding up the envelopes. “What is this?”
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. There are ten men in suits, standing in two parallel rows. They’re staring straight ahead, not at me but the white wall with only a framed piece of abstract art hanging down the center.
“Get out of my house,” I tell them. “You are scaring the hell out of me. Is that what you want?” They don’t move. Their hands are folded together, hanging in front of their waists. “I’m calling the police.”
One of them clears their throat, but I don’t notice which one. I’m not focusing on any of them in particular, just the overall group of these men. There’s ten, even though I swear I’ve met more than ten now.
I turn back toward the second floor, but Kricket, who is no longer working as a dominatrix mistress, steps out of her room, crossing her arms over her chest and stares down at me. “One of them needs to leave,” she says.
“What?” I question.
