How would I explain owning items I cannot afford?
My cellphone rings, and I all but jump out of my skin. The caller ID, of course, reads “Adam.” Why do I even have his name still in my caller ID? But then, what do I call him? Killer? Crazy man? Stalker? I could delete him altogether, but obviously that will do me no good. He’ll call. I could block him. Then he might just kill again, maybe even me.
With that thought, I grab my phone, hit the record button, and answer on speaker. “Hello.”
“You got the gifts I left?” he asks.
My lips press together. I’m no fool. This is his way of telling me that he knows I’m home right now. “Stalker” might just be the right name for him after all. “I just opened the boxes,” I confirm. “It’s too much, Adam. I can’t accept such expensive gifts.”
“I told you, Mia, I’m going to help you change your life.”
By killing people? I want to scream at him, but he’s already talking again.
“The shock you just went through was necessary,” he states. “Just like my car accident was for me. This was, is, supposed to push you forward, not push you backward. You take control. Then I won’t have to take it for you. Understand?”
It’s not a gentle question. It’s not a question at all. It’s a demand. “I’m taking control of my life, Adam,” I assure him, mustering a strong voice I barely know as my own. “I don’t need you to do this for me.”
“Wear the outfit tomorrow. Wear your hair down. Show me you’re in control. Show me you know you’re worthy.”
I want to ask—worthy of what?—but my gut says that is one of those pass/fail questions that ends in me being given a big fat fail. “My friend Jess will know Chanel from a mile away.”
“Good. You deserve it. If she’s a good friend, she’ll think so as well.”
“She knows I can’t afford it.”
“Tell her you have a new boyfriend.”
“She’ll want to meet you,” I counter.
“Then set it up.”
I blanch. He wants to meet Jess? He wants to be that much a part of my life. “I haven’t met you.”
“Haven’t you?” he challenges.
He means last night. I think. I don’t know, but if he wants to come out of the shadows, I will have Jess on my side. Then Jess and I will figure out how to get rid of him. God, I need Jess right now. “When?”
He avoids that question altogether, instead ordering me, “Pour some champagne. Settle on your couch, then tell me what happened with your parents.”
On my couch? What does he know of my couch? Has he been here? Are there cameras in my loft? Terror rips through me, as he seems to read my mind and adds, “And, Mia, keep in mind that I know things. I can erase facts. I can find facts. I can see and hear what you think I can’t see or hear. You understand?”
Those words again. You understand?
I don’t like them. Not one little bit.
And really? He wants me to just talk to him like nothing has changed, like we’re still in a new relationship. “I can’t open the bottle myself. It has to wait until you actually come over.”
“Are you inviting me?”
No, I think, but something feels off, something in the way he speaks as if he’s willing to be outed, to show himself, but he avoids actually doing so. This idea sends a rush of bravery through me and drives me to press him. “Would you come if I wanted you to?”
He’s silent a beat that becomes three and then says, “Not yet. Go sit. Let’s talk.”
He’s watching me. I know he’s watching me, and I don’t know what to do about it. There is a camera somewhere. Maybe many cameras. For now I must simply comply with his command. Stiffly, slowly, I pick up my phone from the counter, walk to the couch, and sink into the cushion. I start to question my paranoia. Maybe I told him that this is my spot to chat. It is my spot to chat. It’s where I spent hours just talking to him. Maybe. I hope. Actually I’m not hopeful at all.
Especially when he seems to know when I’m sitting. “Tell me about what happened at your parents’ place.”
“My mother isn’t cheating. My father feels bad about mistrusting her.”
“How does he know she’s innocent?”
“He hired someone to follow her.” As surely as I say the words, I wonder if Adam is the man he hired. Could that be how he came to know me? To obsess over me?
“Why did he suspect her if she’s not guilty?” he asks.
“He doesn’t feel manly. He feels he let her down.” The words flow easily, words that protect my parents, that keep them off his radar if my father wasn’t actually the one who put us all there anyway.
“After the Lion’s Den issue,” he assumes, aware of this topic from our many talks.
“Yes,” I confirm, and my anger flares, but not at Adam. All that happened today flows back to me, with nowhere but here, with Adam, to vent. “My father has a patent going to auction. That asshole from Lion’s Den is trying to stop anyone from buying it, so he can bury it. It’s good for the world’s energy use, but it’s bad for his business. He even tried to get my father back on Lion’s Den to humiliate him again, I know. To destroy the project that is a winner.”
“Does your father have an attorney?”
“Yes. Jess got him connected with a really good one that she uses. Now he’ll likely go to war with Big Davis, but Big Davis is a billionaire. Those people are hard to beat. My father thinks, in the end, he will earn a big payout, but if Big Davis is involved, or anyone with a personal motivation that doesn’t include taking this product to market, his product will be closeted. It won’t be world changing. He’s worked all his life to make a difference in the world. And did I mention he wants to make my mom proud? He doesn’t know she already is. She so is. I was so very wrong to doubt her. When I saw her tonight, when we talked, I saw her pride in my father, her support.”
“But you don’t think any of this is enough?” Adam presses.
“What if Big Davis finds a way to screw my father all over again? I don’t know if either of my parents will survive that.” I pant out a breath. “I, ah, I guess I had a lot to say.”
But at least it was just words, I think, and safe words at that. Not even Adam can touch Big Davis.
“What are you going to do to help your father?” he asks. “What are you going to do to take control?”
“What can I do?”
“Ask your father to take you to one of the meetings with the attorney. Speak up. Take control, Mia.”
It’s not bad advice, I realize, despite who it’s coming from—that is, until he adds, “So I don’t have to. That’s the lesson. Take control so I don’t have to.”
“I’ll set the meeting,” I promise, and when I might argue I can’t make a difference, I know in my heart, as my parents’ daughter, I can. By being there. By protecting them. By, as he said, speaking up.
“Good,” he approves. “Call your father now and call me back.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m always serious, Mia. You should know that by now. Call me back.” He disconnects.
I swallow hard. I’m being ordered around—no, I’m a puppet and Adam holds the strings. But that doesn’t change the fact that I like the idea of going to see the attorney with my father. I punch in my father’s number. He answers on the first ring. “Honey. Miss me already?”
“When do you see the attorney again?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. Why?”
“Can I go? And just offer support and give you my feelings on the situation?”
“If you can tolerate your mother. She’s going as well.”
“You told her.”
“I told her. She’s relieved to know what is going on. And as you said, she claims to be proud of me no matter what.”
“I’m glad. I knew that. I wish you knew that, too. What time is the appointment?”
“Four. Can you make it?”
“Yes. I’ll be there. Text me the address.”
“You got it. Love you bunches.”
“Love you, too.” We disconnect.
Almost immediately my phone rings with Adam’s number. He’s monitoring my calls. He has to be. “Hello,” I answer.
“Wear the dress tomorrow.”