I spend the whole of Thursday morning running around like a chicken with my head cut off. Between helping Joey set up for a volunteer clean-up event over at the beach and playing phone tag with two city council reps, I somehow manage to bake two dozen of my famous triple chocolate chunk oatmeal cookies.
Apparently Shelby O’Sullivan is hosting a huge birthday party tonight, and I promised Rachel I would make an appearance. All the Rays will be there, which should make for a wild and crazy night. I’m hoping Shelby will accept my cookies as a peace offering.
Her party has a “favorite fictional character” theme, and I’ve been putting together an outfit all week. Is it funny and on theme? Yes. Will I look hot? Double yes. Is Ryan going to lose his freaking mind? Obviously, my entire point.
The doorbell rings just as I’m putting the finishing touch on my lipstick.
“Shit.” I glance at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing my sexy devil costume, complete with red leather skirt, lacy bustier top, black fishnets, and little black horns peeking out the top of my head. My makeup looks flawless—a dramatic smoky eye and cherry red lips.
Tossing my lipstick down with a soft laugh, I saunter off towards the front door. Whoever it is better be ready for a bit of a jump scare. I peek out through the fogged glass of the front door and see a mail truck driver hop back in his truck and drive off.
Opening the door, I glance down. A smallish box is perched in the center of the welcome mat. I pick it up and read the label and my heart stops.
It’s addressed to me.
No one has this address except a few of the Rays and my lawyer. And no Ray would send me something by mail when they could get it to me in person. It’s certainly nothing to do with Out of the Net. My list of suspects narrows down to one.
“Well…fuck.”
I slam the door shut and throwing the bolt. Then I carry the box like a bomb into the kitchen and set it down, glaring at it.
“What’s your game now, huh?” I say at the box.
Snatching a knife from the block, I stab into the flaps of the box, aggressively cutting through the tape. Whatever waits for me in here, it’s not going to be good. Dropping the knife down with a clatter, I tear the flaps and fold them back.
The box is full of confetti—no, shredded paper. He dumped the contents of a paper shredder into a box and mailed it to me?
And then it hits me.
“Oh my god.” I pick up a handful, inspecting it more closely. Yep, these are printed pages. I can just make out some of the words. He shredded the divorce papers and mailed them to me unsigned. Tears sting my eyes as I open my fingers, letting the confetti fall back into the box.
“Goddamn it,” I say, my voice catching.
I shift the confetti a bit and see a small envelope. Bracing myself for the worst, I pull it out and flip it over. He didn’t bother sealing it. I take out the contents, unfolding the papers. My heart sinks out of my chest. It’s printed screenshots of the bullshit tabloid articles featuring Jake and me. He scrawled a message on the top page. I recognize his sloping cursive:
Whores don’t get to make demands
“Lovely.”
My fingers shake as I delicately fold up the papers, slipping them back inside the envelope. I set the envelope down on top of the shredded divorce documents and pick up the box, taking it to my room. I leave it on my dresser as I go into the bathroom and snatch my phone. Flicking through my short list of contacts, I press Charlie’s name and dial.
“Hey, honey, how you doing today?” comes his cheery tone.
“He didn’t sign, Charlie,” I say in greeting.
“I—well, I haven’t heard back from his counsel yet, but they do have till end of day—”
“He didn’t sign,” I say again. “I know he didn’t sign, because I have the contract right here and it’s unsigned.”
“You have it? How—”
“He shredded it unsigned, and mailed it to me,” I explain. “Charlie, how did he get my address? You are the only person up there who has it.”
“Well, I would never—”
“I’m not saying you gave it to him,” I add quickly. “I’m asking you, as someone who deals in family law cases, how would he get ahold of my address? I’m in a different state. He doesn’t have my phone number; I’m not returning his emails. How would my ex-husband know where to send me mail?”
Charlie sighs into the phone. “My best guess?”
“Yes, please.”
“He’s got someone following you.”
My heart stops.
“We knew with all your tabloid drama this might happen,” Charlie goes on. “He must be paying someone to track you down.”
“What should I do? What can I do?”
“Look for any signs that you’re being followed and document them if you can,” he explains. “Curious cars on the street, people going through your trash, someone taking pictures without your consent. Document every time he makes contact, and throw nothin’ out, do you hear? Keep that box of shredded papers. Keep all screenshots, all emails.”
“Okay.” Tears sting my eyes again. I hate the idea of this box poisoning my air with its negative energy.
“Honey, as your attorney, I have to ask—do you believe you’re in danger? Should we start the TRO process?”
“No,” I say quickly. “No, I don’t think we’re there yet. Let me…” I let out a deep breath, trying to get my brain to unscramble.
“Are we moving forward with the divorce? Should I request the court hearing—”
“Wait. Let me just make another call, and I’ll get back to you, okay? I’m not ready to give up on this yet. Let me try one more thing.”
“Okay, honey.”
“I’ll call you back, Charlie.”
“I’ll be here ‘til around seven, and then I’ve got a dinner, but you leave me a voicemail and I’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
I hang up, taking a deep breath. As soon as I feel centered again, I march out into the bedroom. Glaring down at the offensive box, I tap a number into the keypad I know by heart. Then I press the green call button. Holding it up to my ear, I wait.
On the third ring, it connects.
“Hello?” comes my mother-in-law’s voice. “Who is this?”
I don’t respond.
“Hello?”
Taking a deep breath, I charge ahead. “Bea, it’s me.”
“Oh—Tess?” Her tone shifts from authoritative to surprised. “Darling, what’s wrong?”
“You know what’s wrong,” I reply. “What I need to know is what you plan to do about it.”
She sighs, and I can almost imagine her slipping her readers off and setting them on her desk, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What happened?”
The time for coddling her is over. “He shredded the divorce papers and sent them to me in a box with a note calling me a whore,” I reply.
“Tess, this is all so distasteful. It’s such a complicated business—”
“Then uncomplicate it. Make him sign—”
“Is he the one making things complicated, or are you?” she challenges. “You hurt him with your latest publicity stunt—hurt all of us, Tess. I’m doing my best to clean up this mess, but thrusting yourself back into the spotlight isn’t helping anyone—”
“Those are tabloids,” I cry. “It’s bullshit, Bea. I’m not with Jake Price. It’s trash reporting—”
“It’s fuel for this fire,” Bea counters.
“And Troy means to watch me burn, right?” I challenge. “Are you going to help him? Is that what you want too?”
“He’s angry and upset,” she replies. “Justifiably so. You’re asking him to uproot his entire life, to end a relationship that’s lasted over a decade. He’s not taking any of this lightly.”
I shake my head, blocking out her attempts to minimize and deflect.
“Perhaps if you’d just agree to speak with him—”
“No.” My palms are suddenly sweaty at the mere idea of another encounter. “That’s not happening. Bea, I’m done. I’ll give him one more chance to do this uncontested. You write up the papers this time and get him to sign.”
“Tess—”
“You get him to sign, or I will see him in court,” I shout, a tear slipping down my cheek. “And then every awful thing he has ever said or done will become a matter of public record—the cheating, the abuse, the isolation, the harassment. I will drag your precious son into this fire with me, and we will burn together, so help me God.”
“Now your true colors begin to shine,” she says, her tone cold, distant.
I take a deep breath, eyes closed. “This all stops when he grants me my divorce. Only he can do it, Bea. Only he can set us both free.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “I need more time.”
“Well, I have no more time to give,” I reply, wholly resolved. “So, are you helping me or not?”
