Whistleblower ✓

45 | return to sender

My apartment was only three blocks from the Art House.

If you asked Google Maps, it should've taken less than five minutes to get there. But Google Maps didn't understand how absolutely necessary it was to stop at every tree, parked car, and moderately tall retaining wall so Bodie and I could take turns kissing the ever-loving shit out of each other.

When we finally make it to the front stoop of my building, I stuck one hand up my paint-spattered shirt.

Bodie made a choked sound at the back of his throat.

"My key," I said in explanation as I fished it out of my bra.

Inside, I led the way to the second floor and held open my door while I fumbled for the light switch. The apartment looked like it belonged to aspiring hoarders. The kitchen counters were littered with In-N-Out wrappers and cups, and the mess of clothes and make-up in the bedroom and bathroom were visible from the doorway.

"I'll clean up tomorrow," I murmured.

I turned to shoot Bodie a self-deprecating smile.

But his eyes were on his feet.

I caught a glimpse of magazine cut-out letters (which had been arranged into colorful words such as DIE and LIAR and BITCH) a half a second before he bent to pluck up the piece of paper on the kitchen floor.

"Laurel," he said, "what's—"

His face went slack with horror.

"It's almost Halloween," I offered up in weak explanation. "It's probably a prank—"

But he knew about the cut-and-paste notes the Daily had received. There was no use insulting his intelligence.

"Who would do this?" Bodie asked, turning the paper over in his hands to check the backside, like he half expected to see a return address.

"A lot of people are still mad about the article," I murmured.

Bodie's eyes searched my face.

"This isn't the first one you've gotten, is it?" he asked.

He could probably already read it on my face, but I shook my head for clarity's sake.

"There was another one," I admitted. "Earlier. When the Daily got theirs. I got the same kind of—the same kind of note. It's okay."

Bodie blinked incredulously.

"This is not okay, Laurel," he said, and for a split second I thought he was talking about the fact that I'd kept the first note a secret from him. "This is your apartment. This is your home. Somebody knows where you live. Somebody got into your—they got in your building—"

"I know," I interrupted.

Bodie exhaled sharply.

He looked angry. He looked horrified.

He looked defeated.

"I can't tell you what to do," he said. "And I know you like to handle things on your own. I know that's what makes you comfortable. And I didn't say anything when Kyle fucked up your car and you didn't want to get the police involved, but Laurel, this—" he shook out the note, "—scares me."

"I know," I repeated miserably.

"It's your choice. But I am asking you to please, please tell someone about this."

My first instinct was panic. Blinding, suffocating panic.

But then I thought of Sarah.

"I'll go to the police station," I said.