“Okay, let’s get you sitting down before you pass out, yeah?” David says as he directs me to a seat out of view of the finger.
“Do you know how to get blood out of carpet?” I ask him, vaguely aware that I’m fixating on entirely the wrong issue as he crouches down in front of me.
He frowns, looking even more concerned than he did a minute ago. “I don’t think you need to worry about that right now.”
Right, of course. Yes.I nod absently in agreement.We need to call the cops. And oh my god, whose finger is that?! Are they alive? Oh god, what if the person is dead?I groan as I wrap my arms around my waist. Why the hell would some psycho send me someone’s finger?!
“Are you okay with sitting here for a sec?” David asks.
I nod again, pretty sure I’m not capable of forming words yet. He hesitates for a moment longer, running his gaze over my face—which has probably turned ashen—before standing and moving over to where the box is lying on its side from when I dropped it.
Closing my eyes, I hang my head as I suck in deep lungfuls of air, trying to calm the hysteria threatening to consume me. I need to think rationally. Panicking doesn’t help anyone, least of all the guy walking around out there with a missing finger.
I bury my face in my hands. Deep breath in. Long exhale out. Deep breath in, long exhale out. I repeat that until my arms and legs stop trembling, then for another minute until I’m confident I won’t spiral when I turn to face David and the destruction that is now my apartment floor.
David is an ex-Marine, and it’s obvious by the way his eyes run over the scene, cataloging every detail yet careful not to disturb anything. Unlike me, the sight of a bloody finger doesn’t seem to churn his stomach. I guess he’s probably used to seeing stuff like this… well, notthisexactly, but you know, blood and guts and gore.
“Do you have any idea who’d do this?” he asks when he notices me watching.
I shake my head. “No. I’ve only been here for a few months. I don’t know anyone well enough to have pissed them off yet.”
Moving to the kitchen, he grabs a drying cloth before moving back to the box and carefully lifting it to peer inside. His brows furrow. “There’s something in here.”
“If it’s another finger, I’d really rather not see it,” I grumble, a fresh wave of nausea causing sweat to bead along my forehead.
Frowning, he carefully reaches in, using the cloth to avoid contaminating any evidence. “There’s a note.”
Although I’d prefer not to get closer to the finger, curiosity has me rising to my feet and moving to stand beside him as he lifts out the piece of white notecard. Ignoring the bloodstains, I lean in to read what it says.
Sorry to spoil the surprise, but I don’t think Richard will mind.
The only ring you’ll be wearing is mine.
The words swim before my eyes as a coldness like nothing I’ve ever felt before seeps into my bones and takes me hostage. “W-what do th-they mean?” I stutter, still staring at the piece of paper that threatens to destroy everything I know. Until this moment, I’d just assumed it was all one big mistake. The finger was a fake. It was a prank. It wasn’t meant for me. But Richard… that can’t be a coincidence.
I must lose myself to the downward spiral of my thoughts until David’s nudge against my shoulder jolts me back to the cold, harsh reality of my current predicament. “Look.” He points toward the discarded, bloody finger, and unwillingly I look at where he’s pointing, gasping when I notice what I missed before. Shoved onto a too-large, masculine-looking finger is a ring. No, not just any ring. Anengagementring.
“Oh fuck,” I gasp, unsure if I’m going to pass out or vomit.
Nope, vomit. Definitely vomit.
I rush to the bathroom, just about managing to get my head over the bowl before the contents of my stomach hit the porcelain. “Richard,” I sob, flushing the toilet and sagging against the cool bathroom tiles as the last of my energy drains out of me. Looking up through wet lashes, I notice David standing in the doorway. His shoulder is pressed up against the doorframe as he watches me, pity shining in his dark green depths. “M-my boyfriend. We were supposed to go away this weekend.” Bringing my knees up to my chest, I grind the heel of my palms into my eye sockets. “Oh god,” I groan. “He was going to propose. He wouldn’t tell me where we were going. It was supposed to be a surprise.”
I feel wrung out and a fucking wreck as I push to my feet, standing on unsteady legs. “We have to find him. Help him. He could be bleeding out o-or have an infection. He needs medical attention!”
Moving until he’s standing in front of me, I see the truth in David’s eyes, but I refuse to believe it. “Emilia, someone who clearly thinks they have a claim on you just delivered your boyfriend’s finger to your doorstep.” He says each word slowly, emphasizing the gravity of this situation since my poor little broken mind can’t seem to grasp it. “You need to think about yourself. You can’t stay here. You’re not safe.”
“Right. You’re right,” I agree, nodding while I try to work out what to do. “We need to contact the cops. They’ll know what to do. They can find Richard and catch this guy.” I continue to nod my head in agreement with my own plan, determined to believe the police are the solution. I mean, they’re who you turn to when you’re in danger or feel unsafe and need help, right? This is totally within their wheelhouse.
Except David doesn’t seem to agree based on the hard frown lines around his mouth and the scrunch of his brows. “The police can’t do jackshit.” His sharp tone catches me by surprise, making me jump.
“B-but they can run DNA tests and dust the box for fingerprints,” I stammer. I watch crime shows. I see the brushes and the DNA lab reports. They do that stuff.
“They can’t do jackshit to protectyou,” he growls. “While they’re running their tests and canvasing the street and pussyfooting around, who is looking afteryou?”
My mouth opens and closes while I scramble for some sort of response before coming up empty and snapping my mouth closed.
“Exactly.” Standing to his full height, he barks out, “Pack a bag. You have five minutes.” Before I can ask a single question, he strides out of the room, his phone in his hand as he types away on the screen.