Page 101 of It Happened on a Sunday
She might think it’s over. But I’m not letting Sloane walk away without a fight.
Chapter 45
Sloane
“Hey, Sloane.” Marco pokes his head into the room where I’ve been getting my hair and makeup done for the past two hours. “Got a second?”
My makeup seems to be an especially Herculean task tonight. Then again, I got almost no sleep and have spent today alternating between crying and trying my damnedest not to text Sly, as the silence between us stretches like barbed wire across my heart.
When his flowers arrived, complete with an apology he has no reason to make, I damn near caved. Only the thought of how those reporters went after me in that press conference and Sly put himself between us keeps me from giving in. No way am I destroying his reputation the way Jarrod destroyed mine.
No fucking way.
“Of course,” I answer before turning back to the mirror with a critical eye. “I’m pretty sure this is as good as it’s going to get, Mandy.”
She doesn’t look impressed. “Are you sure? I could try more glitter near your eyes. Or more concealer? Maybe a different shade of lipstick would make you look…”
“Less dead?” I fill in for her. “You’ve already used half a tube of concealer under my eyes. This is as un-dead-looking as you can make me.”
“Okay.” She still seems doubtful. “If you change your mind—”
“I won’t. But thanks.” I give her the best smile I can manage before heading out of the makeup chair to meet Marco by the door.
“Sorry to bother you before the show,” he says as we head down the hall to my dressing room. “But there’s something I think you ought to know.”
My heart starts beating double-time. “Did Sly say something to you when you dropped off the check? Did he cause a scene?”
“I didn’t even see him,” Marco answers with a shake of his head.
“Oh.” I tell myself I’m not disappointed. That I don’t care if Sly was too busy to even try to talk to Marco. It’s not like I sent my head of security to the fundraiser for that. He was just there to deliver a check to a cause that obviously means a lot to Sly. I figured it was the least I could do.
Or that’s my story, anyway, and I’m sticking to it. I’m not disappointed at all that he didn’t confront Marco in the parking lot and demand to see me.
“What’s up, then?” I ask as we weave our way through the crowded hallways.
He looks serious as he tells me, “We got something in the mail that I’m concerned about.”
I lift a brow. “Another doll?”
“Something else.”
Shards of ice slide down my spine at the look on his face, and for a moment my bones feel too fragile to hold me up. But I remind myself that I hired Marco for a reason. He’s the best in the business, and he’s not going to let some weirdo with a doll fetish get close to me. None of the other stalkers have, and this one won’t, either.
Still, I have to ask. “What is it?”
“A mutilated photograph of you.” His voice and face are carefully blank, but there’s something in his eyes that makes me wonder just what kind of mutilation he’s talking about.
I go still, my skin suddenly too tight, like it’s already feeling the blows. “Can I see it?” I ask quietly.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says. “The only other people who need to see that abomination are the FBI.”
Now I’m equal parts curious and disgusted. What the hell did they do to the picture? And what is our response going to be?
When I ask Marco the latter, he tells me, “Wait and see if the FBI comes up with anything. They’ll test for prints and run a description of the photo through the database, see if anything similar pops.”
But I’m watching his face, and I know him well enough to know what he’s thinking. “You don’t believe they’ll find anything?”
He shakes his head. “Whoever sent that pic and the accompanying note is seriously disturbed… If they’d been out there doing shit like this for a while, they would have been caught.”
