Page 81 of Sin with Me

It’s been a week.

One week ago, my world shifted on its axis, and I haven’t been able to think straight since. All I can think about is fear.

And revenge.

And justice.

I work open to close on Saturday—anything tokeep my mind off current events. It’s dark when I walk across the parking area behind the clinic, and I have the eerie feeling someone is watching me. My blood runs cold as ice. I stand frozen in place as a distinguished, older man in a black suit, black dress coat, and gloves walks up to me just as I am unlocking my car.

“Ms. Taylor?” he asks, and I am reluctant to answer.

I reach inside the pocket of my scrubs and firmly grip the pepper spray I bought for protection. My eyes are wide with panic, and my mouth is glued shut. The devil will still be the devil—even if he’s dressed in a three-piece suit. I don’t trust anyone.

“Relax. I’m not here to harm you,” he says, reaching into his inside coat pocket as if he’d read my mind.

Run. Spray him and run.

I begin to pull the pepper spray from my pocket but visibly relax when he pulls an envelope out and extends it to me. It’s blank, just a solid white envelope. I glance back and forth from the envelope to the stranger then back to the envelope.

“Please. Just take it,” he says, pushing the envelope further in my direction.

I cautiously accept it with the hand that isn’t latched on to the pepper spray, and he smiles appreciatively. As soon as I have the envelope, he turns to walk away.

Before I have snapped myself out of the Twilight Zone and am able to ask any questions, he climbs inside a black BMW and drives away. There’s another man in the passenger seat, his face shrouded by the shadows of the night. Just as quickly as he appeared, he’s gone. Before I can ask any questions, before I can get a better look, before I can stop them, they disappear, leaving me trembling and full of unanswered questions.

Brynn and I sit at my dining table staring at the envelope lying in front of us while drinking—no, chugging—a bottle of Pinot. The house is quiet except for our breathing and the occasional sound of wine glasses being set on a wooden table top. We’ve turned on every light from the front door to the kitchen.

It just sits there, ominous. The envelope.

It’s surprisingly light, so much so, it could be empty for all I know. What a joke that would be. Hey, let’s scare the piss out of this poor girl with an empty envelope. Only, I don’t think it’s random—or empty.

Silence surrounds us like a vise, squeezing the strength out of us and consuming us in fear. I swear we almost lose our shit when the icemaker on my refrigerator kicks on.

“Oh, fuck it. I’m opening it,” Brynn says after a solid five minutes.

She reaches for the envelope, and I slam my hand on top of it to stop her. “What if it’s something graphic? Like those pictures people send of other people’s cut off body parts?”

“I’ll look first. If it’s bad, I’ll shred it, and you’ll never know.”

“It could be a thumb,” I whisper-shout. “Or… locks of hair. Oh my God, what if it’s my hair? How would he get my hair?” I’m rambling. I’m panicking. I feel like I could run a marathon, but my body won’t let me move.

She stares at me, her eyes full of resolve. “Makenna. I’ve got this. Okay?”

I take in a deep breath and nod in agreement. I watch carefully as she cautiously opens the seal. She holds the flap open as she peers inside the envelope. Her head tilts to the side and she moves forward as if to get a closer look.

“What? What is it? It’s a thumb, isn’t it? Or a penis. God, please don’t tell me it’s a penis,” I ask, impatiently. I have to pee but I’m too afraid to go to the bathroom.

She places the envelope back on the table and eyes me. “What did he look like again?”

“A rich, old guy in a suit. Creepy. But sophisticated. Why?”

Silence. Followed by a short huff.

I can’t take it anymore. Penis or not, I have to know.

“Brynn,” I snatch the envelope off the table and remove the contents myself. As soon as I pull out the tiny square of paper, my mouth falls open and my face pales.

“Not Envelope Guy. The one who… the man who…”

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