Page 10 of Every Step She Takes
I’m don’t have time to open the fridge when someone raps on my door. With that knock, every good thing in my day evaporates, vaulting me back to the night before.
Another knock. I check the peephole to see a young woman in a delivery-service uniform. My gut twists, and I back away from the door. Then I steel myself and yank it open.
“Jenny?” she says.
I smile with relief, and she hands me a steaming box. When she’s gone, I open it. Inside is dinner – piping hot carbonara pizza from Dar Poeta. There’s a receipt attached, with the sender’s name, though I don’t need to check it. Only one person knows that I use Jenny for deliveries. Say “Genevieve” and you spend five minutes spelling it.
I send Marco a text.
Me:You’re amazing. You know that, right?
Him:I do. Someone told me that just last night.
Him:Oh, wait. That was you.
Him:This is why I was being nosy, asking when you’d be home.
Him:I know you had a long day, and you seemed a little off this morning. I figured you could use a pick-me-up.
I start to typeBest boyfriend evah!but then delete it, and I tell myself it’s because I’m fifteen years past being able to useevah, even jokingly.
Instead, I sendThank you!!!as if the multiple exclamation marks compensate for my inability to say the b-word.
Me:If you come by tonight, I can thank you properly.
I add a few suggestive emojis after that.
Him:You’ll make me stuffed eggplant? Awesome.
Me:If you’d rather have eggplant, I believe I have one in the fridge.
Him:LOL. No, I’ll take what you were really putting on the menu.
Me:Good, and I might even save you a piece of pizza.
Him:I’ll understand if you don’t.
As we sign off, I’m already slurping strands of gooey bacon-and-garlic-flecked cheese from my pizza. I cut off a slice and put it on a plate for Marco. Then I grab the pizza box, napkins and a bottle of fizzy water and head for the stairs.
As I’m turning, I spot a white envelope on the floor.
My heart thuds, and I cover the distance in two running steps, pizza box slapping onto the table as I dive for what I’m certain is yesterday’s envelope, which I’d forgotten to burn. Even as I grab it, though, I know it’s not the same one.
This letter hasn’t been opened.
There’s a new envelope on my floor. Under my table. I eye it and exhale with a soft laugh. Okay, a courier pushed it under the door, and it slid beneath the table. Mystery solved.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I turn the envelope over.
Lucy Callahan.
The name isn’t in Isabella’s handwriting. It’s typed onto a label, cold and informal. No sender. No postage marks.
Two days ago, I wouldn’t have opened this. At best, it would be the ravings of a crazed Colt Gordon fan, still determined to make me pay for my “sins.”
After receiving Isabella’s letter, I know the timing of this one is not coincidental. Is there some fresh threat that she’d been trying to warn me about? Is this envelope connected to her letter? Someone found out she was contacting me and did the same?
Colt?
