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.
The note:
Just because.
She told the detective all of this. Damn near word for word.
Karen Colglazier had said she didn’t have a lot of hope they would get DNA from the truffles, especially because it wasn’t a crime to leave someone a half-eaten box of candy. The crime lab wouldn’t prioritize it. Nor would the police budget. Ivy had assumed that. Had counted on it, in fact.
Doesn’t matter, Ivy had said. It had to be Wes. I can’t think of anyone else it could be.
Lucia doesn’t know that part.
When she finally leaves, Ivy checks on her online order. Still due to arrive today. Just in time.
Back to the Chinese. Today’s lesson is about the home, teaching her the words for bedroom, kitchen, chair, and sofa. The mundane words bore her, and she finds herself searching for others, like the word for stalker.
Gēnzōng kuáng.
Ivy memorizes it, mouthing the word over and over until she’s positive she won’t forget it.
* * *
—
Ivy lives on the first floor of the Breezy Village. The manager had called it a garden apartment, which meant it had a little walled-off patio in the back, with just enough room for a table, two chairs, and a tiny plot of land for planting. Ivy does not plant. A green thumb is not something she has.
Still, it’s not a bad place. She’s lived in worse.
The weather is beautiful, a spring night that isn’t too warm, and she sits on her patio, smoking a joint. She doesn’t indulge often, mostly because she grew up surrounded by it. Ivy is from Humboldt County, ground zero for pot farmers in California. Including her parents. They had a small plot of land where they grew and sold marijuana since before Ivy was born. Now they’re in prison.
Turns out that even when marijuana became legal in the state, that didn’t mean everyone could grow and sell it. There were fees, licenses, and environmental restrictions. Her parents didn’t pay attention to any of that, nor did most of the others from her old neighborhood. Five years ago, a big sweep caught a lot of them. Drug laws still apply when you don’t play by the rules.
Nowadays, weed is more than acceptable in Fair Valley, California, though cigarettes are not. Judging by the smell in the air, she isn’t the only one outside smoking tonight.
The sliding glass door to her apartment is open; she can see right through the living room to the front door. It’s locked and bolted. Her phone is right next to her, on the table, and it lights up with every message. The ones who know what’s going on ask how she is, if she’s okay, and they all hope she isn’t alone.
She is.
It’s after eleven when she finally goes inside, thinking maybe she is wrong. Maybe she has miscalculated. A rarity for her, after all these years, but there’s a first time for everything. The idea that she could be wrong isn’t upsetting, in part because she’s high. In part because the unexpected is a chance for something new, something exciting. Something to make her life a little better than it was yesterday or last week or last year.
She locks the sliding door behind her, pulling the curtains closed, making sure every edge is covered. She turns off the lights in the kitchen and living room, then the outside lights. Front and back.
Knock.
Knock.
Two knocks, hard and slow. The sound doesn’t scare her, doesn’t make her jump. Ivy bites back a smile as she unlocks the front door and flings it open.
Wes.
About time.
4
Ivy wears her new nightgown, the one she ordered online. White silk, thin straps, it hugs her curves and hangs down to her ankles. Wes stands in the shadows, illuminated only by the streetlight behind him. Ivy can’t see the expression on his face. She doesn’t need to.
“You called the police,” he says.
“I did.”
He steps forward, into her apartment. “A detective showed up at my office. My work.”
Ivy shuts the door behind him and follows him down the hallway. Wes turns abruptly, almost running into her. He places a hand against her chest; she steps backward until she hits the wall. His face is so close to hers she can see his pupils. Watches them dilate.
“It worked,” she says. “Didn’t it?”
Wes doesn’t argue. He knows it’s true. Once you start crossing lines, the road back is too crooked, too difficult to follow. Easier to keep going forward.
He presses her against the wall. She feels the heat from his fingertips as he leans in close, his lips almost touching hers. His hand slides down, across the front of her nightgown, between her breasts, and stops at her waist.
She holds her breath.
He pulls his hand away.
Wes steps back and turns from her. She exhales hard.
“No,” he says, shaking his head.
No.
Wes uses that word like it’s a weapon. He also said it the last time she saw him.
Four months ago, at an engagement party in Sacramento. Ivy knew Wes would be there, so she brought a date. James was a guy she had met online. He wasn’t very bright but he looked good. Very good.
The party was fancy; the bride and groom both worked in tech and had money to burn. Open bar, fresh flowers everywhere, two different bands, and a never-ending flow of champagne. And this was just the warm-up to the real thing: the wedding.
Wes brought a date of his own, a blonde with huge breasts and a too-small dress. Vanessa or Veronica, or who the hell cares what her name was—she looked fantastic, and everyone knew it. But Wes seemed more concerned with the guy Ivy brought.
They spoke once, near the buffet table, when he came up behind her.
“Ivy.”
“Wes.” She said it before turning around, taking her time filling up a small plate with finger foods.
“How are you?” he said.
She finally turned. As always, he stunned her. It was the way he looked, or maybe the way he looked at her. She struggled to respond quickly. “I’m well,” she said. “You?”
“Living the dream.”
“Good for you.”
Behind him, at a table, she could see his date. The blonde was talking to someone beside her, paying no attention to Wes.