Page 17 of Edge of Ruin
Probably cutthroat computer geeks were analyzing all emails that arrived at her site. And the addresses to which her merchandise was sent. He accelerated out into the street and peeled away, infuriated.
Fortunately, he was smarter than that. The addresses he’d used were untraceable. The address at which the package had arrived was a busy post office in Queens. He was sure that he had not been observed.
How dare she. Challenging him. Flipping him off. He drove for a while, until he came to a large chain store with a vast parking lot and pulled into it. His laptop was still open, so he put it on his lap and pulled up his short list of Vivien D’Onofrio favorites.
One was Brian Wilder’s art gallery. Her work hadn’t been in the Wilder catalog for years, but John was confident Wilder would remember her. Any guy who had sold pieces of art for fifteen, eighteen, even twenty-five thousand dollars, would remember the artist who had produced them.
He called up Vivien D’Onofrio’s own commercial website. Clicked on her bio for the photos. She smiled in the sunshine, hair blowing free, wearing a diaphanous white blouse. In another photo, she was decked out like a pagan bride from the Bronze Age in her own jewelry designs. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings, armlets, chokers, a headdress.
She was smiling that mischievous smile right into the camera. He rubbed his tingling dick as he stared into those big gray eyes.
That little slut was laughing at him from the computer screen. That full, pink mouth wide with mirth. You idiot, those eyes said. You thick, dumb fuck. You just can’t get us. You can’t get close enough. You ‘re not smart enough. You never will be. Dumb fuck.
He could actually hear her shrill, mocking laughter echoing in his mind.
The white mailing box sat on the seat next to him. He wrenched it open and pulled out the gift box. Imagining how her hands had touched it, rubbed it, caressed it. His erection was painfully hard.
The box was made of variously sized chunks of translucent, sand-smoothed bottle glass, both brown and green. Edges lined with strips of copper foil. Soldered together by a webwork of fine silver wire. Her business card was tucked into the bottom of it.
His hand closed over the box in a tight, shaking fist, crushing it. Pieces of glass cracked. Pain stabbed into his hand. Blood dripped out between his fingers. He forced them to open.
The box was mangled, shapeless, poised on his bloody, shaking claw. The business card with Vivien D’Onofrio’s name was crumpled, bloodstained. He liked the effect.
He stared at the chunk of garbage. Uppity bitch. She thought she’d won. Thought she was smarter.
She’d see who was boss, in the end.
Chapter Eight
Vivi
I woke up slowly, in a bright patch of morning sunshine that streamed through the curtainless window, straight into my eyes.
I rolled over to find Edna panting right into my face. I stroked the dog’s velvety ears. Wow. I felt almost unnaturally comfortable. The futon was so much nicer than the battered old mattress in my van.
But I didn’t dare get used to it. I had to find another bed, and fast. No way could I be obligated to Jack Kendrick for anything so intimate as a bed.
I pulled some clothes on, fed Edna, and munched on some of the yogurt and granola that I had bought the evening before. The weather was gorgeous. A great day to hike back to the van, locate someone with a tractor, and stay far, far out of Jack Kendrick’s way. But first, I needed to touch base with my sisters. Check my email. I was off any and all social media platforms, as we all were since our troubles began, so I used the deeply encrypted messaging app that Duncan had mandated.
But my phone had no coverage. I looked around the apartment for a phone jack and found one next to the back door in the kitchen, but there was no landline phone attached to it.
Well, that was a pickle. I needed a vehicle to buy myself a phone, and I needed a phone to summon any sort of vehicle, to take me to a car rental place.
Which meant I would have to ask permission to use his phone. Oh God. That thought turned my legs rubbery.
I marched out, and a spasm of doubt stopped me on the steps. Maybe I should give myself just a casual, cursory peek in the bathroom mirror, to make sure there were no crumbs in my eyes or smeared makeup from last night.
I went inside and did a facial-cleansing routine. Toner, moisturizer, the whole shebang. Teeth. I brushed my hair. That made me reflect that the sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped out was shabby as hell. I rummaged through the duffel. Maybe the green tank—no. Too revealing. The green linen blouse, then. With a hint of mascara. And maybe a tiny swipe of gloss on my lips. Barely any.
One last look into the mirror sent me back to my purse to pull out a pair of silver and jade drop earrings. I posed for Edna, who wagged her approval, and out we stepped into the cool morning.
The fragrance was overwhelming: earth, flowers, pine needles, dew, rain. The air itself seemed to sparkle as it went into my lungs. Birds warbled. Pale sunlight sifted through pine needles, in a fluttering, swaying pattern. I looked around, open-mouthed.
I hesitated before his door. It was seven-thirty, after all. Maybe he was a late sleeper. I’d almost decided to come back later when an unfamiliar voice called from across the yard. “Hello, there, missy!”
I whirled around, my heart thudding, like it always did when I was startled these days. I beheld a small, elderly lady with bluish hair, dressed in a rose-spattered dress and carrying a paper bag, making her way up the path with the help of a cane. “Good morning,” I replied, smiling at the welcome that creased the old lady’s wrinkled face.
“And what’s your name, young lady?”
