Page 27 of Burn for the Devil

Her eyes widened. “You like him. You’re blushing; you like him.” She pointed at me, and I swatted her hand.

Marshall glanced up. “You know who that was, right?”

“He said his name is Ramone.” Thank goodness Marshall knew so much. I wouldn’t have to do the internet search I’d planned for later. He seemed to know everything about everyone in town. It came in handy at times.

“I think I found one; this one sounds good. Let me double check.” He squinted at the screen, eyeing some software. “That man is Ramone Von Fulgere. The Fulgere who owns Fulgere Industries. And the one card merchant that keeps popping up every time I look is owned by Fulgere.”

That meant nothing to me. Although I had to say it was weird it was so popular, and I’d never heard of it. “Okay? Focus on finding a new merchant, please.”

“He’s a gazillionaire. He owns the marketing you see every time you look at a screen. Well, almost all of it. He’s super private, no one ever sees him.”

“He was literally just here.” I pointed out.

Toni gave me alook,as if that information would do something. I faced her. “What?”

“He was looking at you like he wants to eat you.”

My shoulders slumped. “No, he looked at me like he was terrified. Makes sense if he’s that private. He has no interest in me. Plus, I’m going out on a date with Matthew this weekend.” I then remembered I’d meant to ask Marshall about the man, but it didn’t seem as important anymore, so I didn’t.

As if on cue, my cellphone vibrated. It was Matthew, asking if I needed anything for the opera. I texted him back letting him know I was prepared and thanking him. “Speak of the devil,” I announced, holding my phone up. “You’re not going, are you?”

Toni’s lips tilted. “No, not this time unfortunately. We’re heading to Long Island for the weekend.” Toni and her fiancé didn’t frequent many events, preferring a quieter life. I envied her low pressure and freedom-filled existence often.

“Lucky.”

“I thought you liked the opera?”

“I do,” I said, slouching against the counter. “I’m just tired.”

When I arrived home, a large box was positioned in the center of my bed, the green velvet box placed on top along with a note.

Wear the necklace with the dress. See you soon.

The script was elegant, and the ink shimmered as if it were alive, sparkling without any movement of the paper. I stared at it in fascination, not daring to breathe and disturb the phenomena. There was no way this was possible; ink didn’t move of its own accord. I let go, watching the cream-colored parchment float to the bed. I was seeing things, imagining them. My eyes watered. This couldn’t be happening to me; why was I losing my mind again?

I slapped a hand down on the package and dragged it toward me, my fingers prying at the lid. I gasped when it opened. The black silk gown lay there, bundled in tissue paper, several days early. Snagging my phone, I went to dial the dress shop, my finger hovering over the screen. I tossed the phone onto the comforter at the last minute and removed the dress to try on.

It fit perfectly.

While the dress fit like a glove, nothing else did. Not having been held prisoner in my dreams, not having read strange moving ink, not facing disturbingly singular computer issues at work, not Timothy’s renewed interest, not the hot dream sexual encounter, and most certainly not the five-minute dress alterations.

I flatly refused to believe the intimate moment had been anything other than a dream.

My life had always been neat, orderly, and rational and I was currently feeling none of the above. I felt out of control, adrift, and I was suddenly thankful for my parents’ dominance over me. Taking a deep breath, I reassured myself. Everything would be okay. All of it would work out. It had to. My family couldn’t survive another tragedy.

Stripping the gown from my body carefully, I got changed and went downstairs to my kitchen. Pulling leftovers out, I warmed them up and headed to the living room, intent on streaming something on the large screen. When I reached the threshold, I almost dropped my plate.

Placed on the center of my coffee table was a large vase of more than a dozen roses, in a heavy lead crystal vase. The deepest, richest of crimson blooms released a sweet fragrance into the air, almost overpowering my reheated Chinese take-out. The stems, the form, the color, all of it was immaculate and very clearly not from a corner shop, or even a standard florist. Otherworldly in their beauty, I almost didn’t dare touch them. Had I been so distracted when I’d arrived home? How did I miss them? I felt the vase, trying to check the temperature. The water couldn’t have been cold or too warm; whoever had placed these here knew that the liquid must be precise to preserve the flowers as long as possible.

Gently, I cupped one of the breath-taking blossoms rubbing my thumb along the satiny petals. They were gorgeous. There wasn’t a notecard I could see, or any indication where they’d come from. I opened the security app on my phone to check the camera footage but as I watched, it appeared the arrangement had always been centered in the room. Scrolling back further, it had been here for weeks, it seemed. With shaking hands, I walked back into my kitchen and dumped my food in the bin before tossing my plate and utensils in the dishwasher, wincing at the sharp crack of porcelain against porcelain.

I climbed into bed and grabbed the demonology book, intent on relaxing and clearing my mind, a distraction from the turbulent thoughts. My brain won, and I curled up under the sheets, tears streaming from my eyes.

Not crazy. Not crazy. Not crazy.

The affirmation repeated in my mind as I attempted to convince myself, tried to lie to myself.

Everything will be okay.

---