I open it. She’s still in scrubs, looking exhausted and lethal.
“How long a shift?” I ask as she steps inside and snatches a brown paper bag off the porch.
“I’m glad you didn’t open the door right away,” she says, inspecting the bag, “but why the hell did you order DoorDash?”
“I didn’t.”
She looks at me, then back at the bag, opening it slowly. Inside: a giant tub of chicken noodle soup.
We both stare.
Then she reaches in again. No note. Just a DVD.
Bambi.
“Someone,” Bobbie says, “knows you stayed home. And they’re not mad about it. They’re watching.”
She frowns.
“You think this is from Hot Daddy?”
“It’s a DVD,” I say. “Screams older. Could be the son. Or both. Either way, it’s a message.”
“Soup and Bambi,” she says. “Creepy as hell, but also kind of gentle? Like... afterscare.”
She smirks, clearly proud of herself.
I snort. “We will chase and care for you.”
Bobbie gives me a look. “Accurate?”
I hesitate. “Maybe not yet. But... it doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like a test. Or an invitation.”
She sinks onto the couch. “You running all the gear?”
“Scrambler’s on,” I say. “Signal blocker too. If they planted anything, we’re clean for now.”
She nods. “Good. But if they think you’re prey, let them.”
I cross my arms. “I don’t want to be prey.”
She looks up at me, eyes hard. “Then don’t be. Play dumb. Act sweet. Let them think you’re scared and stupid while you flip the whole damn board.”
I nod slowly, the idea clicking into place. “Give them the story they want.”
“While we write the ending ourselves,” she says.
“You’re saying I bait them.”
“I’m saying you become exactly what they think they want... and then outmaneuver them at every turn.”
A beat of silence.
Then I say, “So I act the soft FMC who doesn’t know what’s happening, but underneath, I’m running plays like Bobby fucking Fischer?”
Bobbie grins. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
I pace once, then turn back to her. “Fine. We do this. But it’s going to be my version. No wide-eyed victim shit. I’ll play soft where I need to, but I’m not playing dumb.”