“Do you know for how long?” He listened for a few moments. “No, it’s fine. I’ll catch him when he returns.” He hung up.
“He’s still away?” I stated the obvious. “For how long?”
“The receptionist didn’t know. She was going to pass the phone to Dr. Crawford, but I dodged that.”
“Phew,” I said, and he smiled at me in that familiar way. My mouth went dry. “Well, thank you for your help, Aram. I have to get back to work.”
In the afternoon I performed maintenance on one of the analyzers. I cleaned the internal surfaces, laser reader, probes, calibrated, and topped up solutions. Not unlike a machine, I worked on autopilot. My thoughts circulated around the case, Aram, and Patrick’s inconsistent behavior. Why was he up last night to get the early morning paper? Was it for covert police work? Or could he be a dirty cop or an informant of some sort? Or was he cheating? These possibilities scared me more than any danger from the case.
Near quitting time, I checked my phone for messages. Patrick sent a kiss emoji, and I smiled. He was working late, and I’d have to cab it home.
I received a text from Debra, the flight attendant who lived above me at my duplex apartment.
—June, just letting you know a package arrived for you. I put it in the vestibule. And a heads-up, I hid the key to the basement door under the mat. I’m off for an overseas flight. Be back in a couple.—
A package? I didn’t recall having ordered anything. It was still daylight; I’d swing by and get it.
I’d be in and out and steer clear of the basement.
Chapter Thirty
Along the drive to my duplex, I absently looked out of the taxi window. I appreciated how Aram had called Dr. Fulthorpe’s office earlier and his diligence in working on the case. He was going above and beyond. He behaved like a knight in shining armor. I’d seen him act like this before.
I paid the driver and got out. My duplex house appeared quiet, tall, and almost unfamiliar, even though I hadn’t been moved out for very long. I climbed the porch stairs, entered the vestibule, and saw a square box the size of a toaster. There was a typed label with my name on it, but no return address. I unlocked my apartment door and went inside. Everything appeared how I had left it, including the hallway floor that needed a good mopping.
I put my purse and the package down and grabbed a pair of scissors from the kitchen. The inner blade easily split the taped seam, and I unfolded the flaps. The box was filled with shredded newspaper. I put my hand in, fished around, and found something hard and flat. I pulled out a pink plastic hand mirror with cracks through it. A shard fell out, and I glanced at my cut-up, mosaic-like reflection. I found a note in the box with black marker printing.
How do you like your new face?
I dropped the mirror back into the box as if it was hot coal.
What kind of sick gesture was this?
Anger pulsed at my temples—a switch from being afraid all the time.
Whoever sent the box had mailed it, so they obviously stayed clear of my place. Coward!
Regardless of the louse staying away, I had to make sure my doors and windows weren’t untampered with. As per Patrick’s instructions, I grabbed the gun from my purse. It weighedheavy and solid like a dumbbell, and I cupped my other hand underneath, pointing it downward.
My heart thumped as I inspected each room, window, and the back door. There were no signs of entry or tampering that I could see. At this point, I was more nervous holding a loaded weapon than searching for a potential intruder. I went outside to check the backyard and crept downstairs to the basement. I took the key from underneath the mat but found the door ajar. Debra had been doing laundry down here sometime today before she left. She was probably in a rush and had not clicked the door shut.
Still pissed off, I kicked the door open and gripped the gun handle tighter. I peeked inside. Scant light filtered in, and the basement remained dingy and cluttered—nothing unusual. I entered and switched on the light.
Something moved in the back of the room, by a stack of plastic storage bins. That was no spider or centipede.
My heart picked up to a turbo pace, and pumping blood whooshed in my ears. Should I turn and run? But my feet wouldn’t move. I lifted my arms and pointed the gun.
“Who’s there?”
There was a dragging sound. Something or someone was behind a stack of boxes. My heart was about to burst from my chest.
“I have a gun!”
“Don’t shoot,” a male voice said.
I panted. My whole body shook. Senses overloaded my brain. I didn’t know what to do. Run. Scream. I curled my finger over the trigger. “Who are you? Why did you leave me that package?”
“Package?”
