Page 47 of One More Chance
I stayed single for the rest of that life and was content being a friend to Sloane whenever she'd let me.
A bing sounded as my phone lit up, pulling me out of my memories of my previous life.
I think it's in the garage. Everything ok?
I tried to be calm. I didn't want to alarm her.
Missing you madly and wishing I could see you. I hope you haven't had to wear it recently.
Silence greeted me after that, the implications of my words evident to us both:I hope I haven't made you cry recently.
I buried my face in my hands, the pressure doing nothing to stop the downward spiral in my mind. Angie was bleeding into every corner of my life, our home, my marriage. She was a parasite feasting on our suffering.
Then, a knock. Not at the door, but from the bedroom window. Three soft taps.
Anger surged, flooding my veins. I remembered her voice over the phone earlier, calling my Sloane a cunt, and I clenched my teeth until my jaw ached.
I am going to murder this bitch.
There in the darkness of the bedroom, I sat with my arms wrapped around my knees and listened to my breath turn ragged. I practiced my deep breathing, rocking back and forth on the bed, fighting to contain the boiling rage within me as I repeated a mantra over and over in my head.
She wants you to snap. Don't go out there. If you go out there, you will kill her. If you kill her, you will lose everything. Do this the right way. For Sloane.
At 4 a.m. I found the envelope on the patio table.
The handwriting had changed, become more erratic and almost illegible. The red lipstick smeared across the paper; each letter evoked its own sense of screaming.
I still want us to go to Key West.
What in the actual fuck?
I stared at it as a flicker of confusion teased at the edge of my memory. Had I already invited her to come down to Key West with me? Had we already discussed vacationing there?
Then the stench hit me, that cloying, sickly-sweet perfume of Angie’s. It clung to the paper thick and chemical, crawling up my throat. I gagged, stepping back instinctively, bile rising. My hands shook as I held the note away from me, like it might burn through my skin.
This wasn’t simply stalking. It was an obsession.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to sit still and stay in control.
But fuck me, she was crazy. So crazy, I think it was time to get the police involved before I did something irrevocably stupid.
Chapter 17
The next morning, I drove straight to the police station. The sky was overcast, that dull gray that feels like the world is holding its breath. Even the air felt suspended, thick with unspoken warnings.
The police station stood stark against the sky, its brick facade washed in shadows, cold and unmoved. I pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine, but didn’t move. I sat there in silence, gripping the steering wheel with both hands like it was the only thing keeping me grounded. My knuckles whitened.
The note Angie left replayed in my mind on a loop, her handwriting sharp, slanted, almost manic. Her handwriting burned into my memory.
It might get worse.The thought chilled me. I wasn’t going to wait for her next message.
Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I approached the front desk. The officer behind the glass barely looked up. “Help you?”
I nodded, holding up the notes in a clear zip lock bag. “I need to file a report. Someone left this at my home. It’s a threat.”
That got his attention. He took the bag, read the notes, then motioned for another officer. Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in a small, windowless room going over everything: who she was, what had happened between us, the affair, the blocked calls, the obsessive texts, and now this.
I didn’t hold anything back. I couldn’t afford to.
