Pen Pal(30)

I blurt, “And I loved it. I want to do it again.”

Then I stand there vibrating with embarrassment and wishing I could take it back.

After an interminable period wherein I suffer in silent humiliation, Aidan says, “Okay.”

Disconcerted, I blink. “What do you mean, okay?”

His smile comes on slow and hot. “Just what I said.” He points at the ceiling. “I’m gonna go up on the roof and take care of that tarp now.”

And the bastard turns on his heel and walks out my front door.

He walks out!

I holler after him, “You know what? I was only joking! I made all that up!”

He can’t hear me, but it makes me feel better anyway.





16





Dear Dante,

I debated about whether or not to write you again, seeing as how I think you might be unstable. But you could also just be lonely, and if anyone knows about loneliness, it’s me.

The verse you sent was very poetic.

I’m sorry, but I can’t think of anything else to say about that right now.

What I would like to say is that I hope you’re not dangerous and about to be granted parole, because boy, would I look stupid when the police find my dead body and our correspondence. I can already see the headline:

“World’s Dumbest Woman Ignores All Logic and Writes Letters to Prisoner Who Eventually Kills Her!”

Okay, that’s a lot, but you get my point. We’ve all heard about the prison pen pal romance gone wrong thing. Not that I’m suggesting there’s anything romantic here, mind you! Just that I’ll look really stupid if you break out of prison and kill me.

Especially after writing that last line.

Anyway. I most likely will shred this before it has a chance to be mailed. But on the off chance that I don’t, please consider being truthful about what you did to be sentenced to prison. I suppose I could get my detective friend to tell me because people in his position probably have access to all kinds of sensitive information, but I’d rather hear it from you.

That’s it for now. I doubt you’ll ever read this letter, because I’m ninety percent sure I’ll tear it up, but if I don’t, well…

Take care, I guess?

Sincerely,

Kayla





17





It’s three o’clock in the morning when I finish the letter. I’ve been up since one, pacing around my office, unable to sleep. My mind spins with a dizzying merry-go-round of questions.

Who was the man on the water’s edge?

What does it mean that I found Michael’s buffalo nickel in the exact spot he was standing?

When did I decide it was reasonable to have a pen pal in prison?

Where can I locate my brain?

And finally, why did Aidan leave without saying goodbye?

Because that’s exactly what happened. After walking out in the middle of our conversation, he climbed a ladder up to my roof, draped a blue waterproof tarp over one section of it, pulled out some wet insulation from the attic, then roared off into the darkness in his big macho truck as if the woman he fucked to within an inch of her life the night before wasn’t inside waiting for him.

I really don’t understand men.

Dealing with men is like dealing with a hostile alien species who crash-landed on the planet and decided our language and customs are too silly to be bothered with, and henceforth we should be treated with mild disdain and/or as objects of occasional sexual release before being ignored as inferior beings again.

I do feel better having the alarm, however, so that’s one positive thing.

The little green light on the hub glows cheerfully at me from the wall by the door, reminding me that if nothing else, I can have the cops here in under ten minutes if I forget to disable the alarm.

Or if someone breaks in to try to murder me, but I’m not thinking about that.

I fold the letter to Dante into thirds and slip it in an envelope. I place it in the top drawer of my desk, thinking I’ll decide if I want to mail it or not in the morning. Then I drop heavily into the desk chair and absent mindedly rub the buffalo nickel between two fingers as I stare at the closed drapes, deep in thought.

Until directly above my head in the master bedroom, a floorboard creaks.

I freeze, staring up at the ceiling. When nothing else happens after several excruciating seconds, I glance nervously at the security hub on the wall.

The green light glows reassuringly back at me.

I relax for two seconds until another floorboard creaks overhead, then another, and I break out in a cold sweat.

“It’s the wind,” I whisper, gripping the arms of my chair and hyperventilating. “It’s only the wind.”

My brain decides to wake up from its recent coma to remind me that my ears can’t hear a breath of wind stirring outside the windows.

I counter with the indisputable fact that no one could possibly be in the house as I locked all the doors and armed the security system before I went to bed.

My brain—the asshole—suggests with no regard to my emotional well-being that perhaps whomever is making that noise upstairs was already in the house before then.

Fuck.

“Keep it together, Kayla,” I whisper as my hands begin to shake. “Nobody is in the house except you.”