rly elementary school, and the school district didn’t have enough money to continue a lot of extracurricular activities. Although the politicians argued there was no reason to expose the children to music, art, sports and computer science and programming, I disagreed.
“Is it food?” I ask. The last time, a different group sent us a box of home-baked cookies and brownies that were left for too long and ended up with ants crawling all over them.
“I don’t smell anything.” Rhonda sniffs. “But let me put this on camera, so you can see.”
“You want me to open it?” Patrice says.
“Sure. I’ll go ahead and hold the phone.”
My screen changes to the foundation’s office in L.A. The video jerks around a bit, but soon closes in on the box and Patrice’s big-knuckled hands. She runs a box cutter along the taped edges, then opens the box. Lots of pink and green peanuts fill up the cardboard interior. She scoops out the peanuts, then suddenly stops. It’s hard for me to make out what’s on the small screen…but then I see it, too.
Blood seems to geyser upward to my head, then plummet down to my feet. The room spins, and I reach out, placing a hand on the wall to steady myself, my phone landing on the rug with a dull thud. My temples thrum and my gorge rises. I press a hand against my mouth, and run to the toilet, then puke up everything I had in the last twenty-four hours.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Dominic
There’s a sudden commotion in the bedroom. I abandon my coffee and run toward the sound of screaming and retching.
They’re coming from two different sources. The screaming’s coming from Elizabeth’s phone on the floor. The retching is from the bathroom.
Elizabeth is in there, her hands on the toilet as she heaves. Her entire body is shaking and shuddering so hard, I start to feel alarmed.
I place a hand on her back. “Easy, easy. What’s wrong?” She doesn’t answer. There’s still a cacophony of screaming and yelling coming from her phone, so I go over and pick it up. “This is Dominic King. What’s the problem?”
“Oh my God, oh my God, it’s a dog.”
“A dog?” I repeat stupidly.
“A puppy.”
The video jerks around. I can’t make out what I’m seeing precisely, but I can see there’s a box… “Someone sent you a puppy?” I ask, completely lost.
“Vacuum-sealed!” This is a new voice, gravelly and hysterical. “That’s why we couldn’t smell anything.”
I shove the back of my free hand over my mouth, feeling sick.
“It was addressed to Elizabeth.”
The screen finally stops moving, and I can make out what they saw. The puppy… It can’t be more than a week old. Some sick fuck vacuum-sealed the animal and spray-painted BITCH in hot pink on the bag.
“Don’t touch anything. Call the police, wait for them arrive. Let them handle it.” Most people in a panic tend to feel lost unless given specific instructions.
“Okay, okay.”
I hang up. Anger and nausea churn through me. A woman as beautiful and high-profile as Elizabeth will have her share of stalkers and creeps. But I never suspected this.
Jesus. A puppy.
I return to the bathroom. “Elizabeth.” I rub her back.
“I need some space,” she says, her voice rough. She’s finally stopped throwing up, but her hands are still shaking.
“Of course.”
Even as I say that, I hate she’s not turning to me for help and comfort. And I don’t even know why. It’s such a fucking perverse thing for me to be upset about, after wanting to tear her world apart. I tell myself it’s one thing to want to expose her for what she is, and something else to threaten and terrorize her like this.
I sit on the edge of the bed and watch her through the open door. After a while she stands up, her legs shaky. She splashes cold water on her face, then methodically blots it dry. Afterward, she brushes her teeth and gargles with mouthwash.