like that are all about perception.” Emerson was still standing too close, still peering over her shoulder even though there was nothing to see—her screen had gone blank. “And perception always drives results.”
Layla allowed her gaze to roam the fine planes of his face—the high cheekbones, square jaw, finely sculpted chin, smooth dark skin—and found herself frozen, unable to breathe. Extreme beauty often had that effect—as did the paralyzing fear of getting fired on her first day of work. She could only hope Emerson wouldn’t inform Ira of her less than stellar performance.
“Figured you would’ve known that,” he said. “After all, isn’t that what our department’s all about? Manipulating public perception into believing Ira’s clubs are the only worthy place to see and be seen, and that his tequila is the only brand worth drinking?”
Layla fidgeted, fingers picking at the strands of her platinum bob while swiveling back and forth in her seat. While she was beginning to resent Emerson’s presence, even she had to admit there was truth in his words.
“Anyway,” he continued, in a light, breezy tone she didn’t quite trust. He had it out for her, of that she was sure. “I’m guessing this was meant for you, seeing as it has your name on it.” He dropped a rectangular package onto her desk.
Layla squinted at the parcel. On the surface, it seemed innocuous enough, but something about it set her on edge. For one thing, there was no return address. For another, it was her first day on the job—she wasn’t expecting any mail.
“Found it on my chair when I came back from lunch. A simple mail room mix-up, I’m sure.”
Layla’s fingers fumbled awkwardly at its edges, but she had no intention of opening it till Emerson was safely returned to his cubicle. “Okay, thanks,” she said, her voice as dismissive as she could possibly make it. She waited until he rounded the corner and disappeared from view.
The package was substantial, but not terribly weighty. And when she shook it ever so slightly, she could sense something bulky shifting inside. All of which brought her no closer to guessing its contents.
Hoping the mail room had some sort of defined protocol for screening potential mail bombs, she retrieved a pair of scissors from her drawer, sliced through the tape, and stared perplexed at the red satin heart-shaped box she found tucked inside with a small envelope attached to its front.
It was the kind of box usually seen on Valentine’s Day. The kind of box that looked very out of place sitting on her desk in the middle of a scorching-hot August afternoon. And with no love life to speak of since Mateo had dumped her, she couldn’t even venture a guess as to who might’ve sent it.
Her dad simply wasn’t the grand gesture type. And Ira—well, Ira was her boss, which made it grossly inappropriate and completely out of the question. As for Tommy . . . well, she wouldn’t allow herself to consider it.
On the front of the envelope, her name was written in an elaborate curlicue script. Still no closer to determining who’d sent it, she flipped it over, ran her finger under the flap, and removed the small rectangular card placed inside, which bore a picture of a grinning cartoon cat with a noose tied snugly around its neck.
Layla stared at the card—it was hideous, creepy, and the sight of it gave her the chills. While she had no idea what it was supposed to mean, one thing was sure—it definitely hadn’t been plucked from the Hallmark shelf.
With trembling fingers, she popped the card open to find a message written in the same fancy curlicue script.
Hey, Valentine!
In your effort to help your friend get out of jail
Your blog has become a total fail
And while I consider that a real shame
I think we both know, you alone are to blame
If it’s clues that you want
Then trust me, this is no taunt
Inside the box awaits a surprise
I truly believe it will open your eyes
All I ask from you
Is to post it for public view
I hope you take the bait
And don’t make me wait
If this all gives you pause
Then remember this clause:
Curiosity killed the cat—but satisfaction brought
her right back!
Xoxo
Your Secret Admirer
Layla set the card aside and pried open the box, only to groan in dismay as a pile of pink confetti and glitter spilled out all around her. Her heart racing, she slipped a nail under the flap of the slim manila envelope hidden beneath and retrieved a single piece of paper folded neatly in thirds.
The paper was yellowing and worn, its edges curled, the writing dramatic and loopy, with small chubby hearts dotting the i’s and carefully drawn stars and twisting vines of flowers trailing the length of the margins.
Layla began to read, and by the time she reached the end she went right back to the beginning and started again. By the third reading, she was left with more questions than answers, mainly: Who on earth did it belong to and why had someone seen fit to send it to her?
She was just refolding the pages, about to slip them back into the envelope, when a picture she hadn’t noticed tumbled out and landed faceup on her desk.
The girl in the photo was young, probably somewhere around seven or eight, but definitely no older than ten. Her hair was long, tangled, and dark. She had skinny legs and dirty bare feet. The dress she wore was wrinkled, stained, and at least one size too small, while the doll she dangled by her side was missing an eye and a limb and wore a strange, somewhat malevolent, lopsided grin.
But it was the girl’s eyes that held Layla transfixed. They were so intense, so arresting, so startlingly familiar it was nearly impossible to look away.
Hurriedly, she shoved the package into her bag, pushed away from her desk, and darted toward the exit. Aware of Emerson’s gaze burning into the back of her head, she anchored her cell between her shoulder and ear and in a lowered voice said, “We need to meet. I think I’ve just found our first clue.”
THIS SUMMER’S GONNA HURT LIKE A MOTHER F****R
Aster Amirpour shuffled into the room and took the only chair available to her—the one bolted into the floor. Despite hating every moment of being locked in her cell, she’d come to dread leaving it as well, and for that she had her parents to thank. They meant well, she knew. But every visit from them and her attorneys left her feeling progressively worse, depleted of hope and resenting the freak show her life had become.
It
