Alan and Grant talk for several moments longer, and eventually, I notice the heaviness creeping into Grant’s eyes. It’s not the normal look he gets before calling it an evening. He’s literally exhausted at present, so much so that his shoulders are sloped, and his limbs look weighted in the bed. He needs to sleep, which I think he’ll finally do since all he’s been doing is clawing to get out of this place.
Alan notices the fatigue too, and after touching on what the rest of his week looks like, he stands and nods. “I’ll leave you two for the night and will check in again tomorrow.”
“Sounds good,” Grant says, almost slurred.
As the door shuts, I’m curling into the couch, grabbing my work laptop.
“You’re working now?”
“I am.” Lifting the top up, the screen flicks on, and I type in my password. “You sleep. I’m only going to catch up on a few emails.” It’s honestly the least I can do after falling so far behind. I haven’t looked at a thing since the shooting three days ago.
I open up my professional email, and Grant is already snoring, finally sleeping deeply and peacefully—thank God.
Glancing over everything, I notice that most of the emails are spam. My social security number has been stolen, there’s cheap flights to Jamaica, we could save money on printing toners—every useless email you can think of. It takes me an hour to delete those, and after that, I decide to check my spam box.
A few chew-out sessions from big clients have taught me that sometimes, important emails head straight to spam. The audacity my email server has at times to make those kind of life choices is frustrating, so now I always check.
I click on the folder, and…
Instantly, my stomach lurches up into my throat.
The subject is chilling.
Viv:
All I can think about is my name. Vivian, Vivie—no one’s really called me Viv before, though. I claw for one normal breath as I try to talk myself down for panic.
No—just no. It’s nothing. This is nothing. It’s nothing.
Still, my pulse revs into high gear, disobeying my wishes as I dare to open the email.
A photo of Grant and I pops up first. It’s the dinner—the one the photographer took right as I heard the news about Seth. And boy, does it look like it too. My face is in a state of shock, mouth dangling wide open to match my eyes.
Okay—this is something. A tremor eats through the fibers in my hand, and I scroll down. I reach the body of the email, and fuck…
Little Doll, Little Doll.
Did you think you could hide with your green eyes and lies?
Did you think you’d be safe in such a place?
Did you think you could stay away and never die?
Foolish thinking for you and the man at your side.
My time has come, your fun is done.
Pop. Pop. Pop went the gun at the event a few days ago. Your man in black kissed the ground but did not die—did not bleed the way I wanted.
But knowing where you are, there are more opportunities to right the wrongs.
No more paper dolls, my dear. No more clippings or tape for the toys who don’t look like you.
I’m glad to finally find you—I’ve learned many things since you’ve been away.
Paper doesn’t bleed or scream, but I’ll be curious to see if your porcelain face will.
I’m hoping you’ll crack under my touch, but if you bleed, I’ll relish that too.
I’ll enjoy your skin and eyes flowing the prettiest shade of drinkable red—and as your tears attempt to wash away the blood, your screams will be the melody of my slumber.
Five years is so long—too long not to see your face. Such a bad doll you are, but I’ll make everything all right again.
Our time to play together isn’t too far away now.
Lonnie.
“Fuck.”