"Oh, shit!" The words escape my lips as I watch the brown stain spread.
Penelope lets out a squeak that’s half surprise, half horror. She leaps to her feet, rushing towards the kitchen. "Paper towels! I need paper towels!"
But I barely register her panic. My mind is racing, replaying the conversations with the police, searching for a crucial detail I’d overlooked.
"The accounts!" I blurt out, my voice rising with urgency.
Penelope returns, a wad of paper towels in hand. She drops to her knees, dabbing frantically at the spill. "What accounts?"
I set my mug down, careful not to cause any more damage. "The client accounts I found, the ones with Scott’s name all over them."
Penelope pauses in her cleaning efforts, looking up at me with a frown. "You think it’s all related?"
I run a hand through my damp hair. "What are the odds, Pippa? We start looking into these supposedly murdered people, and then Scott shows up dead? After I find his name all over those files?"
She sits back on her heels, considering. The rug is forgotten for a moment as she processes my words. "Your logic isn’t unsound," she admits slowly. "But Nicole, we haven’t found any actual evidence of these supposed deaths."
That’s a fair point. "Still, it’s something for the SED to look into. They even asked if he had enemies at work..." How my brain didn’t process the connection, I don’t know. Then again, I felt half catatonic during the entire thing.
"Has Scott’s death hit the news yet?" I’m not some sort of murder-voyeur. It’s just that, thinking of those deaths that haven’t been reported in the media, I have a hunch...
Maybe Scott’s won’t hit the news, either. And if it doesn’t, then maybe it’s proof of a connection. And maybe, if there’s a connection, the SED won’t try to pin me for his murderer.
Is it terrible to worry about myself when my ex-fiance lost his life?
Penelope reaches for the remote, flicking on her sleek, wall-mounted TV. As the screen comes to life, she also pulls out her phone, thumbs moving rapidly across its surface.
"Nothing on the major networks yet," she reports, flipping through channels. "And I’m not seeing any headlines online either. But it’s still early, I suppose."
I nod absently, my attention caught by the images flashing across the TV screen. It’s coverage of a local election, faces of candidates I vaguely recognize from campaign posters around town. For a moment, I let myself be distracted by the mundane normalcy of it all. People going about their lives, worried about who’ll be the next city council member or whether the new tax proposal will pass.
It feels surreal, watching this slice of everyday life while my world has been turned upside down.
"I’m going to call the detective."
* * *
Sunlight assaults my eyelids, and I jerk awake in shock.
For a second, I thought I was back in that brightly lit interrogation room, still dressed in clothes with Scott’s blood all over them.
But I’m not.
I’m on Penelope’s couch.
Reaching for my phone, I check the clock: 7:00 a.m.
Leaning my head back with a sigh, I check my notifications. Nothing.
I’m supposed to return to the station in a couple hours to discuss everything with the detectives. Instead of getting up, showering, getting dressed, and eating breakfast like a normal human, I just groan and roll over, closing my eyes as tight as I possibly can.
A cheerful jingle announces the opening of Penelope’s front door, and I glance over my shoulder to see her coming in, dressed in a full athletic outfit—lavender with white stripes down the pants—and a nondescript, large paper bag in her hands.
"Oh, you got breakfast?"
My stomach growls, and I find the strength to sit up.
"No," Penelope says in confusion, tossing the bag at me. "This has your name on it. It was in front of my door."
A chill runs down my spine, and I can’t shake the feeling of unease that settles over me. Penelope’s expression mirrors my own uncertainty as I reach for the bag with trembling fingers.
"Maybe you should take a picture first?" she offers, holding up her phone. "I took one of it at the door."
Good call.
I snap a photo before slowly opening the paper bag, afraid of what I’ll see. My mind races to things like severed pinkies. My breath catches in my throat as I pull out a nondescript white box. Inside?
Fresh clothes. Not just any clothes, but a complete set including underwear and a bra. My stomach churns.
"What is it?" Penelope asks, her voice tight with concern.
I can’t find my voice. Instead, I pull out a folded note nestled among the garments. With shaking hands, I unfold it, my eyes scanning the words scrawled across the paper.
’Keep your head up.’
"Nicole?" Penelope’s voice seems distant as I stare at the note.
"It’s clothes," I murmur. "And a note."
Penelope frowns. "Clothes?" Taking the bag from my limp fingers, she peers inside. "How did they know your size?"
The question sends a fresh wave of nausea through me. Whoever left this package knows far too much about me. The intimacy of it—down to my underwear size—makes my skin crawl.
"Does this mean someone’s on your side?" Penelope murmurs, throwing me for another loop.
"What?"
"This note." She waves it in front of me. "’Keep your head up’? That sounds encouraging."
I blink.
And blink again.
The creepy feeling is still there, but I manage to sit up straight. "You’re right. It does."
"Still, kind of weird. How do they know you’re here? Did you tell anyone?"
I shake my head.
She twists and turns the paper, even turning it over and holding it up to the light, squinting hard as if trying to make something out. "Do you have a stalker?"
"I don’t know." Rubbing the goosebumps on my arms, I shudder. "Maybe."
"So odd." She pulls the clothes out, inspecting the tags. "You could get these from the mall easily. Nothing special here. Not too expensive. Decent quality. I don’t think this is from someone who wants to hurt you."
"Really?" I ask doubtfully.