A Twisted Love Story(3)

“Did you talk to her?” Karen asked.

“Briefly. Hello, how are you . . . that kind of thing.” Maybe a little more than that, but he was not about to repeat every single word. Also no reason to mention how Ivy had looked.

That dress.

“So, no problems?” Karen said. “No animosity, no anger?”

“Absolutely not.”

The detective didn’t react at all to what he was saying, so it was hard to know how much she believed. But it was the truth: That engagement party was the last time he had seen Ivy.

“As I said, I’m here more as a courtesy than anything else,” Karen said. “Someone has been bothering Ivy, leaving her notes and presents, along with pictures of her. They’re letting her know someone is watching.”

“That’s so disturbing,” he said.

“When I asked her who she thought was doing it, she gave me your name.”

“Ivy and I haven’t been involved in a long time,” Wes said.

“Then why would she think it was you?”

“I have no idea,” he said. “I can only think it’s because we had a relationship that was . . . intense.”

“Intense?”

He sighed. On purpose, like this was a tiresome subject. “We met in college. It was a first love kind of thing.”

“What does that mean?”

“Like I said, it was intense.”

“She said you dated for years.”

“On and off, yes.” Wes had never figured out if it was more on than off or the other way around, and he had spent a lot of time thinking about it.

“As I said, I’m here as a courtesy.” Karen didn’t move when she spoke, didn’t use her hands at all. As someone who used his all the time, Wes found this fascinating.

“If you’re the one doing this to her, you need to stop,” Karen said. “Get over it, move on, find someone else, do whatever you have to do. But leave Ivy alone.”

Not so courteous. More like a threat. “I’m not the one doing this,” he said. “I haven’t gone near Ivy, and I certainly haven’t left her any presents or notes.” Another sigh, followed by a glance at his computer screen. “If I’m your suspect, you’re wasting your time.”

Karen stared at him like she was waiting for him to say more.

Not a chance.

She stood up, the movement so sharp and quick it surprised him. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Harmon.”

“Of course.”

He also stood up, as he always did when a meeting ended. Wes waited until she was gone and the door was closed to sit back down. He swiveled his chair around, toward the window, though it wasn’t to look at the view.

All he could see was Ivy. And he smiled.





3




Ivy clicks the ballpoint pen over and over, until it becomes a rhythm instead of noise. The repetitive sound keeps her focused.

She sits at her desk, where one computer screen displays her emails, the other a spreadsheet. Earbuds firmly stuck in place. To anyone walking by, it appears as if she’s listening to music while working. She would be—if there was any to do.

That’s the thing about working for a bloated corporation with bad management: No one realizes there isn’t enough work to go around. Or they don’t care.

She was done with her required tasks by lunch, and since then she’s been listening to Mandarin Chinese for Beginners. This is her new thing, learning languages. Spending all day on social media got old forever ago.

The pen jams, breaking her concentration. She hurls it into the trash can and picks up another. Someone interrupts her before the first click.

“How’re you doing?”

Lucia stands in the doorway to Ivy’s tiny office. It’s barely big enough for two people, nothing more than a cubicle with walls. Or a cage, because that’s how it feels. Lucia fits because she is small; her near-Lilliputian frame squeezes right into the space.

“Oh, you know,” Ivy says, pausing the language lesson. “Hanging in there.”

Lucia nods, patting her on the shoulder. Her eyes are big and can’t hide anything—every emotion is visible. They’re screaming sympathy. “I’m glad you went to the police,” she says.

“Me too.”

“Well, like I said, you can always stay with me. I mean, there’s not much room at my place, but if you don’t want to stay at home, the offer stands.” She smiles a little but not enough to show her teeth, like that would be rude.

“Thanks,” Ivy says. “I’ll be okay.”

More sympathy eyes from Lucia.

She is one of the few who knows about the stalking. Ivy only told a few people about it. None of them knows the whole story.

First, the notes left on the windshield of her car. Next, the pictures. Real photos, printed out and also left on her car. Someone had photographed Ivy walking to her car, going into her house, shopping at the grocery store.

Then came the chocolates.

The brand was everything. L?derach, the Swiss company. Wes used to give her a box of those truffles for Christmas and her birthday. Two days ago, she found them on her doorstep. Same-size box, same brand. Twelve truffles, lined up in two rows, except these weren’t like the others. Every truffle had a bite taken out of it.