Page 83 of Lucy and Her Wicked Three

A knock on the door has us both freezing in place.

"Are we old?"

"Excuse me?"

"I can tell by the look on your face you don't want to deal with company or answer the door. Neither do I. Are we old?"

The second knock has me wiping the dough off my fingers before I wash my hands in the sink. Over my shoulder, I tell her, "I'm not old. You're definitely not old." She's only twenty-seven to my thirty-one. I'm a year older than Silas and Mateo. "But you're right, I don't want company. You expecting anyone?"

"Nope."

She keeps kneading the dough, and I peek through the peephole before swinging the door open. It's Gerry, one of the daytime receptionists.

"Hey man, everything okay?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, but Mr. Torres requested if any more packages showed up that I bring them directly up. Same courier, but I got the name of the kid who dropped off the package this time. Not sure if that helps."

I look at the black-wrapped package in his hands and my heart sinks. Christ, I thought we were done with this bullshit.

"Thank you Gerry." I take the box. "I appreciate you bringing this up yourself."

"It's no problem. As I said, the delivery was the same service as before, and I got the names, but from what Mr. Torres told me, that information wasn't helpful in finding out who's actually sending these."

I'm surprised Mateo shared that much considering his reluctance to do anything about the packages. I thank him again and turn back to Lucy. I wouldn't keep her from this but I do wish I could spare her the worry.

Her hands pound the dough, which I don't think you're supposed to do—the instructions were pretty clear, you're caressing, pushing and pulling, but she's beating on the wet mound of sticky flour like this mess is the bread's fault.

"Go on then. Open it up. Let's see what nonsense she's come up with this time."

"I don't understand what she gets out of this," I grumble, ripping open the package, preparing myself to see some lewd photo of Mateo. "I mean, it sounded like, after you and Silas—"

My words evaporate. A clawing rage billows out of me, and I have to resist the urge to fling the framed picture across the room, to get it out of my hands.

"What is it?"

I try to hide it from her, but I'm not quick enough. Her hands are sticky but she doesn't wash them. After seeing my reaction, she tugs the frame out of my grasp, and reluctantly, I let her.

She stares at the picture, going through the motions I'd go through if I was her. For me, it's just pure rage and anger. For her, it starts with horror. Then disgust, and discomfort. Eventually, fear.

"We'll put a stop to this. Once and for all. Obviously, she didn't get the memo."

I watch as she turns in on herself. She doesn't crumble, or start fanning herself like she used to. But she's definitely stressing. I can't help her though, I can't take that away.

She keeps working the dough, and I pull out my phone and text the guys. I keep it somewhat vague, but encourage them to get home as soon as they can. They both, rightfully, ask a million questions and sound worried, but I tell them Lucy's okay, but another picture showed up.

They assume it's of Mateo. It's not.

The dough gets wrapped in a special pan and she sets it aside on the counter, then meticulously cleans the counter, cleaning all remnants of flour.

After she finishes, she moves on to the living room, picking up and fluffing pillows, refolding blankets that don't need to be refolded, keeping her hands busy.

When she disappears down the hall, I follow. I sit back in a chair in the corner of her bedroom while she tidies up unnecessarily. I let her keep herself busy, but when she shakes, getting frustrated with the blanket, I finally make her stop.

She doesn't cry, but her breathing comes in rapid pants, so I hold her close.

"It's going to be okay, Lucy. I promise."

"I know. I know. It's just… why does she hate me so much?"

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