I open the door just as he’s dropping off several cases of books. I have to sign these and get them shipped out to my readers.
Eight large boxes later, the mailman is panting, sweat running down his light brown face.
“Thank you, Pedro. Sorry for all the boxes,” I say, waving awkwardly.
He waves a hand in acknowledgment before getting back in his truck and shooting off.
I sigh, staring at the boxes with a look of dread. These are going to be a bitch to haul in. I step out, but my foot knocks into the corner of something heavy.
Looking down, I notice a small, lidded cardboard box. There's no shipping label on it, which means Pedro didn't drop this one off.
My heart plummets, a burst of anxiety hitting me right in the gut.
I don’t know why, but my eyes dart towards the woods as if I’m actually going to see someone standing there. I don’t. Of course, I don’t.
Sucking in a deep breath, I pick up the box. And then nearly drop it when I see a smear of blood where the box was sitting.
“Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. God? Please don’
t allow this to happen to me on this fine Sunday morning. Please let me not find what I think I’m going to find,” I pray out loud, my voice cracking as a drop of blood lands on my toe.
Hands shaking, I set the box back down and just panic. There’s a drop of blood on my toe. I knew there was blood on my hands already, but now my toes? I can’t take this.
Before I can think about what I’m doing, I tip the lid off with my foot.
Hands.
Severed hands are in the box, just like I feared.
“Oh, fuck me. Fuck this shit.”
I twirl and run back in the house, scrambling to find my phone to call Daya.
The line rings for all of two seconds before she answers.
“I’ll be there in a few hou—”
“Daya.”
“What happened?” she asks sharply.
“A hand. And another hand. Two of them. In a box. On my porch.”
She curses, but my panic mutes the sound.
“Don’t do anything yet. Wait till I get there,” Daya orders. “Go take a couple of shots and wait for me.”
I nod, despite that she can’t see me. But it doesn’t stop me from nodding again and then hanging up without a word.
I do exactly as she says. Taking two shots of vodka to calm my nerves. And then take deep breaths, slowly, in and out until my racing heart calms.
The fucker actually did it. He sent me Arch’s hands. A part of me knew he wouldn’t lie, but somehow, I didn’t believe it anyway.
“Shit,” I mutter, dropping my head low between my shoulders, balancing my weight on the edge of the counter.
Twenty minutes later, Daya shows up, her car ripping through the driveway, based on the squealing tires.
Her car door slams shut. By the time I get to the door, she’s approaching my gift still sitting on the porch, her gaze riveted on the grotesque sight.