DAISY
October 25, 2019. Friday.
Six days before the murder.
Daisy drives home in a state. She probably shouldn’t be behind the wheel, because her brain and body feel totally weird. How did Vanessa get it all out of her? How did it even start? Daisy remembers—she slipped by mentioning her fear that maybe Jon didn’t really want a baby.
As Daisy turns into the Rose Cottage driveway, she sees a piece of brown paper sticking out of her mailbox. She drives up to the garage door, parks, gets out of her car, and walks back down the driveway to the mailbox. She needs the air. But she stumbles and almost falls, catching herself on the mailbox. It sends a shock through her. Her heart pounds. Her skin is hot despite the chill autumn wind. She holds on to the mailbox, feeling woozy, disconnected from reality. Leaves skitter around her feet.
She should never have drunk that wine. It went straight to her head in a weird way. She tells herself it’s probably because of abstaining for so long since she learned she was pregnant.
Daisy reaches for the plain brown envelope sticking out of the mail slot. She freezes. The envelope looks exactly the same as the one Jon brought inside last week. No name. No address. Her pulse races even faster. She glances around the neighborhood. More leaves blow off trees and clatter across the sidewalk. A dog walker stands near the corner, holding a leash attached to a Pomeranian trying to pee. Daisy’s old neighbor is on all fours near the sidewalk, deadheading flowers along his fence. A crow caws. She glances up. The bird watches her from the telephone wires. She hates crows.
Daisy moistens her lips and rips the envelope open.
Inside is another A4 piece of glossy photograph paper. Daisy slides it out. Her breath stalls. It’s an image of a carving knife next to a tombstone that says:
RIP BABY BEAN.
At the bottom, printed in block letters, are the words:
IT’S NOT ALL CHILD’S PLAY—DIE BABY, DIE, DIE, DIE. I HOPE YOUR BABY DIES
Fear cracks through her. And right on the back of her fear rides a white-hot burst of rage.
There is one person—just one person in this entire world—for whom these words and images would mean anything.
Their stalker from Colorado.
Charley Waters. The stripper.
Daisy’s gaze darts around her neighborhood again. Is Charley here? Did she follow them from Colorado? Is she stalking them again?
She’s gaslighting me—she’s fucking gaslighting me.
Daisy waddles hurriedly over to the fence and calls out to her elderly neighbor. “Frank! Hey, hi, Frank?”
The old man looks up, then pushes to his feet and approaches the fence.
“Hello, Daisy. How are you guys doing—is everything okay?” His eyes narrow as he comes closer. “Are you ill?”
She’s shaking. Hard. Her face feels beet red. Her skin is on fire. Her eyes burn.
“I’m fine. Totally fine. Did you see anyone come onto my property and put something in my mailbox?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve been out here most of the day, puttering away in the front yard. Are you sure you’re okay? Can I fetch you a glass of water or something?”
“No one suspicious came to our mailbox?”
He frowns, regarding her intently. “I can’t say that I saw anything strange.”
“Are you certain? Nothing unusual at all?”
“Just the maid. The usual one, same as always.”
Daisy stares. “The maid,” she repeats slowly.
“From Holly’s Help. The one who drives that little yellow Subaru with the sign on the doors.”
“Thanks, Frank.” She turns and walks slowly to her front door, breathing hard.
Once inside, Daisy paces. The maid? Surely there’s no way some cleaner from Holly’s Help knows what she did in secret to Charley Waters back in Silver Aspens.
Daisy knows she should call the police. Report Charley. Tell them she’s here. That a vindictive and dangerous stalker in violation of her restraining order has followed them across the border.
But then Daisy would have to explain why she believes this note came specifically from Charley Waters. There’s no way Daisy is going to reveal she terrorized, then pressured and paid, Charley to eliminate Jon’s offspring. And that she did it because there was no way in hell she was going to let that piece of trailer-park stripper trash tie Jon to her forever through a child they shared. No freaking way. Women like that just keep coming back for more—more money, more childcare, more attention. For as long as that child was alive, Jon would be chained in some way to its mother.
Daisy paces some more, her hand supporting the small of her back. There’s only one thing to do.
She heads up the stairs. She locates her small address book, scans through the contact details, finds Charley’s mobile number, and punches it into her phone.
The phone rings. Daisy tenses.
The instant her call picks up, Daisy barks, “Is it you? Are you doing this to me? What in the hell—I will sue your ass to high heaven, Charley Waters.”
“Daisy? Daisy Rittenberg? Is that you?”
“You damn well know it is. You were at my house. You’re following me again. You followed us all the way into Canada, and you’re stalking me. Lurking behind my hedge in the alley, following me. You put that note inside my car. I know it’s you who’s been posting that crap on my Instagram account. You are dead, Charley Waters. You are so fucking dead. I will destroy you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Only you know about the Chucky doll. Only you.”
“Chucky doll?”
“The ones I sent you. The notes I used to threaten you into getting rid of Jon’s baby, before you relented and agreed you’d take the money and have the abortion. Before you signed the gag order where you legally agreed to never talk about this or to contact us again. Before you were slapped with a restraining order. I am going to call the police right now—tell them you are harassing and scaring me again.”
There is a long silence. Daisy’s mouth is as dry as bone dust. She’s trapped Charley. She’s got her. It’s Charley who has done this. She can hear it in her silence. A cocktail of rage and triumph powers into Daisy’s chest. It makes her feel big, strong.
“I can’t believe you just said all that, Daisy,” Charley says quietly on the other end. “You just came out and straight out confessed what you did to me—with the Chucky. You admitted you were harassing and terrorizing me into having an abortion, and then you paid me to have one. How much was it again?”
Daisy lowers her voice, and her words come out tight. “Don’t even think about trying to get another half million out of me, Charley Waters. I don’t have time left for your crap. I paid you to shut the fuck up. Is it you who’s trolling me on Instagram? Did you follow us here? Are you gaslighting me?”
“Oh, wait, I get it. This is about Kit, isn’t it?”
Daisy stalls. “Who’s Kit?”
“Listen, lady—” Charley suddenly speaks fast, as though she’s realized she slipped and is quickly trying to cover up. “You’re crazy. Mad in the head. And I want you to know that you are in breach of our contract by calling me, and—”