Page 116 of Retribution

I post the job advertisement and list a decent paying salary to go alongside it. I have some spare cash in the overheads that can cover the monthly salary and it means the girls at the studio don’t need to suffer from my lack of passion.

Closing my laptop, I pull my gym bag from my locker, a white envelope dropping out. My full name is addressed on the front.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I tear it open with fury.

The card is titled ‘Sending my condolences’ and from the title alone I want to tear it up before even reading the inside of it. But, my curiosity gets the best of me.

‘How does it feel to become Mrs. Breckenridge II’, the same cursive handwriting.

I grit my teeth and stuff it into my bag.

Whoever is sending these messages is trying to scare me out of being with Reed. I’m not having it anymore. I don’t feel threatened in any way, but it’s become a regular occurrence and I don’t want to be plagued with these for the rest of my life.

Taking out my phone, I dial Harry and we organize to meet up downtown, at an Italian restaurant. I text Reed to let him know I’m staying late at the studio and hike my bag onto my shoulder.

I have images on my phone of the previous two cards and the picture of the flowers on my kitchen island. I can’t keep this to myself anymore, I have to tell someone, or I’ll start to think I’m going crazy.

Ordering a glass of house red, Harry interrupts and tells them to bring over the finest Cabernet Sauvignon by the bottle, forgetting that I am now technically a wealthy Breckenridge.

The waiter pours the wine into the large glass, I tell him to just fill it to the top instead of pouring me a ‘ladylike’ amount.

Taking a few gulps of it, I set the glass back down, instantly feeling more relieved.

“Harry, I don’t even know where to begin.” I exasperate.

“Start with the beginning.” He responds, earning an eye roll from me.

I begin to tell him about the first card, showing him the picture and then the second one and the third. I hand him the card and he picks it up, flipping it over and scrutinizing it for any kind of evidence.

“Do you have the envelope?” he asks.

I nod and pull it from my bag, handing it over.

He checks the seal and groans, “Whoever is sending them is smart enough not to be lick-sealing these shut.”

“And they’re not posted?” He asks.

I shake my head.

“So, whoever is giving you these, is hand delivering them to you, showing up at your common places, the house, and the studio.”

He seems like he’s talking to himself rather than me. I drink more of the wine and nibble at the warm bread in the center of the table.

“Each message seems like a coincidence, does it not?” he raises a brow.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they’re all impeccably timed. With the circumstances.”

I’m not really catching his drift here.

“The first card was a ‘Deepest sympathy’ card, telling you that you’ve made a mistake. And it was a wedding gift, a wedding between you and Reed.”

I nod, trying to follow along whilst practically inhaling the homemade bread.

“The second card was ‘sorry for your loss’ and this was found just after Reed lost custody of Willow.”

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