I recognized thehandwriting. The childish, awkward handwriting I’d seen before.
“I can’t open this,” I said,pushing it across the table so hard it fell off the other side and hit thefloor.
Logan picked it up, lipspursed to a thin line. “You want me to open it?”
I nodded. I knew I couldn’t throw it awaywithout looking at it, IknewI needed to see it.
Part of me hoped it’d be a directthreat. Then maybe the guilt of leaving my entire life behind wouldn’t gnaw sohard on the pit of my stomach.
“Vegas postmark,” he said,fingering the seal. He turned the letter this way and that, looking at it underthe light, feeling the contents.
I’d never thought to do that.Jesus, there could have beenanythingin these letters and I’d never thoughtto check one of them out before tearing it open.
Logan opened the envelopecarefully, peeling the seal away and then tearing along the top fold with hisfinger when it ripped.
Meanwhile, I was chewing mylip bloody, watching his fingers as though they were the only thing in theworld.
I didn’t need this. Icouldn’thandlethis.
He extracted a cheerfulfloral card, the kind that came in stationery sets they sold in gift shops thatno one ever actually used. I’d probably given one like it to my mom or mygrandma at some point.
I always liked prettythings.
That was half my problem inlife.
“You want me to read it toyou?” he asked, holding the card open.
“Is it a threat?”
Logan’s brow furrowed.“Not… exactly. But it’s not nice.”
Did I want to hear this?
I had to. Logan wouldn’t have read itto me if I didn’t ask, but I needed to know what the note said.
“Read it.”
Logan cleared his throat.
“Roses are red. Violets areblue. Like the new bodyguard. He fucking you, too?”
The faintest hint of a blushcolored Logan’scheeks as he read.
I focused on that instead ofthe overwhelming urge to throw up.
“So they know I’m here,” hesaid. “And they know what I’m herefor.”
I heard him speaking, but itwashed over me as a wave of noise. He was watching me.
Someone, out there, waswatching me.
Close enough to know thatLogan was here, and he was my bodyguard, and maybe even that I liked him. Itmight have been a guess, but it mightnothave been.
What if it was someone Iknew? Someone who lived in this building, or across the street? A neighbor,someone I’dnodded to in the hall, someone I’d stood in line behind for coffee?
“Hey, hey, breathe,” Logansaid, laying a hand on my shoulder and squeezing tight.
I hadn’t realized I waspanting for breath until he said it, my lungs burning with the effort of tryingto fill. My whole body was tense, too tense to do something as simple as drawin enough air to live on.
