Page 25 of Lethal Lover

“You’re asking me to do the impossible, buddy.” Kraus is on my last nerve.

“Just do it.” I drop the phone into my palm and end the call, then turn and call over my shoulder. “Hey, baby, come have a shower with me.”

I step into the shower and shut the door expecting Elena to join me, but a full ten minutes later, when I’m clean and the mirror is steamed up, she still hasn’t come in. I towel off and cinch the white cotton around my waist and return to the bedroom to see her curled up, flipping through the channels. She’s been crying. I can see it in the way her eyes are puffy and red-rimmed. I leave her alone. I don’t have the patience to deal with her being afraid of an invisible man right now.

“I have to go downtown. You’re welcome to stay here if you want.” I walk to my dresser and pull out some boxers and a pair of socks, then head to my closet to pick out a suit.

“I have to go home. I need to eat something and get cleaned up.” I don’t hear any movement in the bed, but from where I’m dressing inside my closet, I can’t be certain.

I find myself very irritated that she’s talking about getting cleaned up when I just invited her to shower with me and she passed, but I let it slide. I’ve been doing that a lot for her—letting things slide. I’m growing weak.

“I invited you to shower and you ignored me.” My jaw is tight as I growl out the words, but she doesn’t respond. I pull on my slacks, tuck in my shirt, grab a tie, and walk back into the bedroom to see her dressed and sitting on the foot of the bed.

“I couldn’t hear you. What did you say?”

She’s stunning with smudged makeup and sleepy eyes, but she’s not responding how she should. I still have some lessons to teach this one. I just have to do them carefully so she knows it’s her own choices that brought her here and keep her here.

“I said, I’ll give you a ride. I just have to call Slick to have the car brought around.”

The TV is off now, and she doesn’t seem to want to talk about the fire anymore. Maybe she’ll drop it entirely now. I just need the news to drop it so it doesn’t come up, and my plan will continue unrolling.

Pulling all these strings behind the scenes is exhausting, but I’m doing it for the woman of my dreams. She just doesn’t know it. She’ll see one day. Today is not that day, so I’m learning to be patient.

16

ELENA

For six days, the entire theater has been on pins and needles. Warren has been sullen and moody, mostly ignoring me, and Trixie has been strangely nice to me. It’s like since I’ve been getting the lead roles for every play and all the positive reviews mention me by name—Kershner must really like me—I’m the one everyone wants to hang out with. Today, we are having lunch together, sitting at an outdoor café. Everyone is a bit glum at the final confirmation from the NYFD. The fire at Mr. Flemming’s house was ruled accidental.

There’s no one to blame. No one to be angry with or pay for what happened. It’s like there is no sense of justice or ability to get closure. Apparently, his wife was doing laundry and the lint filter caught fire because they hadn’t cleaned it. I have a horrible feeling in my gut about this. I don’t believe this was an accident, and some of the news reports say that too. They are calling itbad luck that has befallen the theater.

“Just ain’t right,” Warren says, jamming his falafel into his mouth for a bite.

“Yeah, it just feels like someone put a hex on us.” Trixie isn’t eating. She says she has no appetite, and I wonder if it has something to do with the fresh bruises on her arms. She seems upset with everyone but me, and I don’t know how to respond to that because up until this point, she’s been mostly jealous and angry with me.

I don’t have anything to say to chime in on this conversation, at least not in a positive way. I want to tell them all about the stalker. There’s no way this is a coincidence. I just don’t know how he made it all happen. How did he organize a mugging, a car accident, and an “accidental” fire too, all while managing to send me hateful, scary mail? That frightens me.

There is a lull in our conversation, and Mindy sighs hard. Without saying a word, she gets up and walks away. Everyone is taking it hard, including the stagehands who don’t ever interact with Mr. Flemming. I think they all know something strange is happening.

“Well, let’s look at the bright side. At least someone is buying the theater so it won’t go under. I heard it was a billionaire whose wife used to be on Broadway back in the day.” Warren speaks with his mouth full, and I try not to cringe. We’ve all heard about the new owner. It’s a shame there is no one left to run the place in Mr. Flemming’s stead, no son or business partner he could have given it to. I don’t know how I feel about that. Too many bad things have happened too closely together to process my emotions over it all.

I called my mom the other day, but I said nothing about the fire. She’d only worry and tell me to come home, but I can’t go back to Ohio. Broadway is my shot at making it big and really doing something with my acting career. There’ve been so many greatactresses who started here and went on to the silver screen to become massive stars. It’s what I want more than anything.

“I heard he’s going to change things a lot,” Trixie grumbles as she takes a drink of her juice. I doubt she’s heard that. That is probably her fear kicking in and making her spin a tale. I think we all fear that the new owner will make changes we don’t care for. I, for one, fear being let go. After the news article stating that Monroe and Flemming were watching me and had put me on probation, the whole world is probably waiting for me to fail.

“Do we have to talk about this?” I ask, trying to change the subject. I want to focus on happier things, like our upcoming show, and not how we’ll all carry the weight of this tragedy.

A man approaches the table carrying a pink envelope and a bunch of balloons. The ribbons are wrapped around his fist tightly, the balloons blowing to and fro in the breeze as cars pass. He is wearing a red cap with a florist’s logo on it and a matching red jacket, and he walks directly up to me.

“Ms. Cortez?”

“Uh, yeah?” I glance around nervously at the others, who all stare at me like I’m the center of attention. I’m not celebrity status. I don’t know why this creep keeps sending me letters and flowers. I feel sick to the stomach just thinking of what this one might say. It’s the same damn pink envelope, and I know the stalker sent it.

“These are for you, courtesy of Nonni’s Flowers and Gifts. Your secret admirer would like you to know he sends his condolences.” The man sets the balloon weight on the table, which I previously did not see, and hands me the card. “For you.”

The old Elena, the one fresh off the bus to New York City, the one who grew up in a small town in Ohio, barely a blip on the map… she’d be blushing and embarrassed to receive such attention.

But this Elena is rattled. I’m shaken to my core. The man isn’t just sending letters in the mail. This envelope has my name written on it in one word. There is no address, no postmark. He’s stalked me and knows where I am right now. I look around sharply as the delivery boy walks away and feel a cold chill. He is probably watching me.

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