Page 82 of Babies for the Big Shot
I even peek out through the peephole once. Nothing.
But when I close my eyes?
I see her.
That shape. That coat. That lipstick. Watching me from across the street, a ghost who didn’t get invited inside.
Meatball shifts on my legs. Lets out a low, sleepy snort.
“I’m being paranoid, right?” I whisper. “Like, definitely not on a government watchlist level, but maybe a WebMD page about stress-induced delusions?”
He lifts one paw and plops it on my arm, sayingyes, you’re crazy, but I live here too, so you need to pull it together.
I let out a shaky breath.
Then another.
And then I say it out loud, for the first time.
“I need to tell him.”
The words fall into the silence, heavy and unforgiving. I press a hand to my stomach. Meatball shifts in my lap, exhales sharply, then settles again, absorbing the tension like only he can.
I don’t even know what I’m waiting for—maybe the right time, maybe the right way. But whatever it is, I can’t wait anymore.
I’m about to grab my phone and call Nick when there’s a softslapat the front door.
Not a knock.
Something sliding through the slot.
I freeze.
Meatball lifts his head and growls. My pulse slams against my ribs.
I set him down, tiptoe to the door, and peek through the peephole.
Nothing.
Not a soul in the hallway. Just a flickering ceiling light and the stale smell of old carpet.
Still, I wait a second longer before unlocking the deadbolt. My fingers shake as I reach down and pick up the envelope lying face down on the floor.
It’s unsealed. Heavy stock. No address. No stamp.
Inside, there’s a single sheet of paper. No greeting. No context. Just one line typed clean across the middle:
I think we should talk. You deserve to know the full story.
Beneath it, a name:
Isla Vale—Edge Magazine
My stomach drops.
I rush to the hall and yank the door open. I scan the corridor.
The elevator remains shut. The stairwell holds its silence. No footsteps echo. No one waits in the shadows.
