Pen Pal

39

“You said you need to work. I won’t get in the way of that. And use that smart tone with me again, and you’ll earn yourself—”

“I know. A spanking.”

“No. You like it too much. It’s a reward. Next time you sass me, you’ll be punished.”

I assess his serious face with narrowed eyes. “Punished how?”

“Try me and find out.”

He smiles at my poisonous expression. Then he sets me on my feet, stands, and walks me to the front door.

Opening it, he says, “I’ll talk to you soon. In the meantime,” he gives my ass a swat, “stay out of trouble.”

He leans down, gives me a firm, quick kiss, pushes me over the threshold, then shuts the door in my face.

Miffed, I shout, “Goodbye, Aidan!”

From the other side of the door comes a low laugh. “See you later, Kayla.”

I head down the stairs to the parking lot, wondering why he never says the word goodbye and why he avoided my questions about it both times I asked him.

More mysteries to add to his growing collection.

I’m lost in thought as I get in the car and start it, but freeze when I see what’s sitting on the dashboard above the steering wheel.

A 1937 D-type buffalo nickel.

21

stare at the coin with my heart palpitating and my mind recoiling as if it spotted a rattlesnake.

After a while when I get up my nerve, I reach for it with a trembling hand. It feels abnormally cold in my fingers, as if it’s been stored in a freezer.

But it hasn’t been in a freezer. It’s been where I left it, in a drawer in my office desk.

And now it’s here.

In my car.

The car parked outside the bar that Aiden lives above.

I glance around, but there’s no one in sight. The parking lot and sidewalks are deserted. There are a few cars parked along the street, but they’re down a block or so, near a bakery.

Truly frightened, I stare at the coin again.

One of only two things happened here. Either I took it from my office drawer and don’t remember doing that—or leaving it on the dash—or someone else took it from the drawer and left it here for me to find.

Which makes no sense. Who would do that? And why?

Starting to shake, I drop the coin into the cupholder between the front seats and reach behind the passenger seat for my purse. I only brought the key inside to Aidan’s with me last night, but now I can’t be certain if I locked the car doors or not. Did I unlock them a moment ago?

I don’t know. I don’t remember.

How can I not remember?

As I dig into my purse for my cell phone, my panic builds. I navigate to the security app and load it. I curse when I realize I’ll have to rewind about twelve hours of video feed to see if anyone was in the house while I was gone.

“But that can’t be possible,” I whisper. “The alarm would’ve been triggered.”

Which means I would have received a call from Jake’s security company, but there isn’t one. The notifications are blank.

So the only remaining possibility is that I left the coin here and forgot.

I lean my forehead against the steering wheel, close my eyes, and take deep breaths, trying not to hyperventilate.

This memory problem has to be caused by more than stress, but I’m extremely wary of doctors. Both my parents’ deaths were caused by medical misdiagnosis. My mother’s when her doctor misdiagnosed her lung cancer symptoms as asthma, and my father’s when his doctor told him those chest pains he’d been having for the past twelve hours were nothing more than heartburn. The doctor prescribed antacids, when in fact the culprit was a heart attack. By the time Dad was admitted to the emergency room, it was too late.

And didn’t I read somewhere that most deadly infections people get are picked up inside hospitals?

“You need help,” I tell myself. “Stop rationalizing.”

But what would I even tell a doctor? “Hi, I’m Kayla! I’ve been hearing strange noises in my house, jars fly out of my kitchen cupboards on their own, my memory has more holes in it than a spaghetti strainer, I’ve got a new pen pal in prison, and I started an intense s****l affair three weeks after my husband died with a man who calls me his bunny rabbit!”

And let’s not forget the mysteriously reappearing buffalo nickel and the weird guy in the hat who spied on me from behind a tree and didn’t leave any footprints behind. In mud.

Psych ward, here I come.

Just breathe, Kayla. Just calm down and breathe.

Back at the house, I’m worried I might not have armed the alarm before I left, but it’s working as it should. I enter in my code to reset it, then stand in the foyer, listening.

For what, I don’t know.

The house is silent. When I enter the kitchen, I half expect to see more open drawers and cupboards, but nothing is amiss. I go from room to room, checking things out, until I’m satisfied there are no bogeymen hiding in closets or behind doors.

Only I’m not really satisfied. I’m paranoid, and I don’t know what to do about it.

So I do what any rational person would and pour myself a glass of wine.

Then I lock myself in my office and force myself to work, ignoring the disturbing fact that I’m drinking wine before noon and trying to pretend it’s normal behavior, when in reality, everybody knows denial about your drinking habits is a total red flag for alcohol use disorder.