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I wrapped the painting in brown paper, leashed Tucker, and went downstairs to drop it off and take the dog for a walk.

Twenty minutes later, we were coming back up to my door when I saw a courier standing outside waiting for me. “Are you”—he looked at his device—“Sloan Monroe?”

I wrapped Tucker’s leash around my hand. “Yes…”

“I have a package for you. You need to sign.”

“A package?” I scribbled my name on the digital screen. I wasn’t expecting anything. Kristen maybe?

I took the flat white envelope and let myself into my apartment, examining the outside. There was no name on it.

Kristen. She was always sending me something crazy. Last week she’d mailed me a crocheted tissue holder that looked like a vagina. She was so weird.

I dropped my keys on the credenza and sat on the sofa to open it. Tucker stood in front of me, tail wagging like there were dog treats inside it. “Maybe it’s something for you, huh?” I grinned at him as I pulled out the contents.

And then my smile fell.

I knew the handwriting on the paper instantly, even before I read a word.

A hard lump built in my throat as I scrolled through the letter.

I reached back into the envelope and a shaking hand pulled out the real reason for the delivery.

Two front-row, VIP tickets to a Jaxon Waters concert at 7:00 tonight.