Page 24 of The Toy Collector

Her eyes widen as she takes in the amount. Raising an eyebrow, she looks at me. “Let’s open them.”

Together, we pour every black puzzle piece onto the desk. When I grab the envelope with the note, I hand it to her so she can read it. After she’s done, she places the puzzle piece next to the others.

“Wait.” My eyes fly across the pieces as I mentally count them. “There was no envelope this morning,” I whisper as I realize something is very wrong.

“Okay,” Lena says, dragging the word out. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

I shake my head. “You don’t understand, Lee. There should only be seven envelopes, but there are eight.”

We count them out while arranging each piece until we’re sure we’ve only counted each piece once.

“Do you think he snuck one into your drawer when he drew on your mirror?” she asks, giving voice to a question I’ve already accepted as fact.

“He must have,” I mumble absentmindedly, more focused on moving the pieces around to see if any of them fit.

Two of the pieces fit together, and I stare at them, my mind looping through the implications. Nothing is visible on their black surfaces; no image, no letters. But it’s enough to know they connect. That it all connects.

“What do you think it means?” Lena’s voice cuts through the dense air, and I meet her gaze.

“I don’t know,” I murmur. “But something tells me he isn’t going to wait for me to figure it out.”

But what the hell am I going to do in the meantime? Just sit back and let this shit eat me alive? These puzzle pieces are fucking bullshit. He’s trying to scare me, and I’m feeding into it. Well, fuck that.

Making a spur of the moment decision, I swipe all the puzzle pieces into my hand. “Grab the envelopes and the note,” I tell Lena as I march into the kitchen, and quickly swipe the pieces into the sink along with the envelopes she hands me.

Before she can ask me what the hell I’m doing, I reach for the lighter I use for candles, tucked in the kitchen drawer. Realizing what I’m up to, my bestie springs into action. Instead of deterring me, she throws the window open.

“Go ahead,” she says with a sharp nod. I strike the lighter, and the flame eats the puzzle pieces like it’s starving.

Cardboard curls, and black turns to ash. The smell of scorched paper curls into the air, acrid and oddly satisfying. I don’t say anything as I watch the fire, but with every piece the flame consumes, the more relieved I feel.

Before Lena leaves, we call a twenty-four hour locksmith, who, with the promise of a healthy tip, arrives within the hour to change my locks. With the new locks and mace under my pillow—just in case—I feel safe.

The police didn’t think it was an issue, so maybe this is all it’ll take. It’s like Professor Lynn once said, every obstacle can be overcome with the right strategy. And I think I’ve perfected that tonight.

Bone-deep exhaustion hits me the second Lena leaves, and falling asleep proves to be much easier than I thought it would be.

Chapter 9

Lorenzo

Awicked grin stretches across my face as I witness my toy’s futile attempt to conclude our game with fire and a new lock on her door. Does she really believe she can so easily rid herself of me?

I fixate my gaze on the feed as I rewatch, devouring every second with a fervent intensity. She looks utterly pleased with herself, a smug smile stretching across her face as she steps back from the sink. Then she halts, eyes locked on the pieces I meticulously selected for her as they twist and writhe, devoured mercilessly by the flames.

I bide my time for an entire hour after the locksmith leaves. But it’s enough time for Cy to track down the man, and get his hands on a key. I don’t care whether he gets it by money or violence, as long as he gets it.

As soon as I finish that thought, my phone buzzes with a text from Cy.

Cy: Your key is under her mat. Have fun!

The anticipation builds as I finally head to her place, and when I reach her door, the key is indeed waiting for me under her doormat. With a steady hand, I slide it into the lock and turn it, the familiar click echoing in the quiet hallway.

Her scent hits me the moment I step inside—vanilla mixed with the barest trace of sweat. It’s like inhaling her pulse. Tonight, it’s mixing with the lingering scent of the burned puzzle pieces.

Her soft snores echo through the hallway, drawing me toward her bedroom like a siren’s call. There, she’s ensnared in a chaotic tangle of sheets, one leg provocatively curved, her knee slightly angled. Just enough to make a man imagine what’s hidden beneath.

One perfect breast is exposed, her rosy nipple puckered from the cool air—as ifit’s waiting for my mouth, not her blanket.

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