Page 107 of Pucking Wild

“I’m not saying you gave it to him,” I add quickly. “I’m asking you, as someone who deals in family law cases, how would he get ahold of my address? I’m in a different state. He doesn’t have my phone number; I’m not returning his emails. How would my ex-husband know where to send me mail?”

Charlie sighs into the phone. “My best guess?”

“Yes, please.”

“He’s got someone following you.”

My heart stops.

“We knew with all your tabloid drama this might happen,” Charlie goes on. “He must be paying someone to track you down.”

“What should I do? WhatcanI do?”

“Look for any signs that you’re being followed and document them if you can,” he explains. “Curious cars on the street, people going through your trash, someone taking pictures without your consent. Document every time he makes contact, and throw nothin’ out, do you hear? Keep that box of shredded papers. Keep all screenshots, all emails.”

“Okay.” Tears sting my eyes again. I hate the idea of this box poisoning my air with its negative energy.

“Honey, as your attorney, I have to ask—do you believe you’re in danger? Should we start the TRO process?”

“No,” I say quickly. “No, I don’t think we’re there yet. Let me…” I let out a deep breath, trying to get my brain to unscramble.

“Are we moving forward with the divorce? Should I request the court hearing—”

“Wait. Let me just make another call, and I’ll get back to you, okay? I’m not ready to give up on this yet. Let me try one more thing.”

“Okay, honey.”

“I’ll call you back, Charlie.”

“I’ll be here ‘til around seven, and then I’ve got a dinner, but you leave me a voicemail and I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks, Charlie.”

I hang up, taking a deep breath. As soon as I feel centered again, I march out into the bedroom. Glaring down at the offensive box, I tap a number into the keypad I know by heart. Then I press the green call button. Holding it up to my ear, I wait.

On the third ring, it connects.

“Hello?” comes my mother-in-law’s voice. “Who is this?”

I don’t respond.

“Hello?”

Taking a deep breath, I charge ahead. “Bea, it’s me.”

“Oh—Tess?” Her tone shifts from authoritative to surprised. “Darling, what’s wrong?”

“You know what’s wrong,” I reply. “What I need to know is what you plan to do about it.”

She sighs, and I can almost imagine her slipping her readers off and setting them on her desk, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What happened?”

The time for coddling her is over. “He shredded the divorce papers and sent them to me in a box with a note calling me a whore,” I reply.

“Tess, this is all so distasteful. It’s such a complicated business—”

“Then uncomplicate it. Make him sign—”

“Ishethe one making things complicated, or are you?” she challenges. “You hurt him with your latest publicity stunt—hurt all of us, Tess. I’m doing my best to clean up this mess, but thrusting yourself back into the spotlight isn’t helping anyone—”

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