Page 24 of Letting Go
Oh, see? Walker agrees I did a good job; that’s so nice of him.
Chapter eleven
Vivian
“I can never drink again,” I groan to my sister. Savannah was able to give me a ride to my car as Shane was actually home for once and playing with the girls in their pool.
“Sorry not sorry you had too much fun!” Savannah laughs unapologetically at my pain. “I’m really proud of you for going out and having fun just for you for once. You deserve to be happy, you know?” She squeezes my arm quickly and I know she’s talking about more than just having fun on girls’ night.
“You know that’s true for you too.” The small smile Savannah gives me in response before looking away makes it clear she doesn’t want to go deeper into that conversation, so I let it go—for now anyway. My head feels like it’s stuck in a vise, and I don’t think I’ll be able to eat anything until later this afternoon without getting sick. I’m not even sure how much I had to drink last night. Everything is a little hazy, but I know I had fun, and my cheeks hurt from laughing so much. I’m sure my friends will fill in the blank spots later and hopefully I didn’t do anything too embarrassing.
“Am I losing it or does it smell faintly of latex in your vehicle?”
“Ah yes, it does indeed still smell faintly of latex.” Savannah chuckles. “One of our darling brothers thought it was hilarious to fill my car with pink balloons on March first in honor of National Pig Day. I haven’t been able to prove it, but I think it was Liam. He’s still sore about the pixie stick incident last summer,” she replies with a smug smile, clearly having zero regret about the pixiestick explosion in his car. To be fair, emptying pixie sticks into his air vents with the fan set to be on high when he started his car was a really good prank, even if Liam can’t fully acknowledge the fact.
Savannah pulls up to my car and her mouth drops open. “What happened to your car?” I turn my head to see what she’s talking about. My SUV is parked where I left it, but my driver side taillight has been smashed. “Did you back into something?”
“Crap. No, that wasn’t like that last night when I parked.” I get out and walk around my car. The pieces of my taillight are on the ground near my car, but I don’t see any other damage, and no one left a note to explain an accident. “Guess I have to add an errand to my list to get that fixed.” I stomp my foot in annoyance at the shattered pieces on the ground.
“How would that have happened?” Savannah’s eyebrows scrunch together as she looks over my car for any other damage.
“I don’t know, but why would someone intentionally do this? Maybe someone accidentally backed into it and didn’t realize it happened. That’s as good an explanation as anything else, right?” I bite my lip, looking around for any other clues or explanation. I subconsciously rub my arms as a chill encircles my body.
“I guess. Forrest Falls is a safe town, so maybe it was a fluke, or you know what, it was probably just some dumb kids messing around.” Savannah gets back in her car and rolls the window down. “I’ll follow you home so you don’t get pulled over for a busted taillight.”
“Thanks, Sav.” I nod in acknowledgement before getting in my vehicle. Nothing inside the car seems out of place. It probably was a fluke thing or some mischievous kids just being kids … but my gut twists slightly at the possibility that maybe this wasn’t an accident. I try pushing the fear away and hold on to the logical suggestion that it was just a chance mishap. Inhaling a deep, cleansing breath, Itry to calm my racing heart before starting my SUV and head back home with my sister following closely behind.
A few days later, I’m sorting a stack of mail Savannah left for me, most of it forwarded from Chicago, and a plain envelope catches my eye. It is once again addressed to Vivian Callahan and the hair on my arms stands up as an uneasy feeling crawls up my spine. I open the envelope and find another anonymous poem.
“Sav!” I call out to my sister in a shrill voice as I walk out to the patio. My hands are shaking as I show her the poem. “I didn’t want to admit this possibility, but this only seems to confirm it. Someone broke my taillight on purpose!” I am completely creeped out that someone not only did this on purpose but sent a poem implying they are watching me. “What behavior of mine has been foolish? What did I do? Who would do this?”
“I don’t know who sent this, Viv, but we need to call the cops. This is threatening and let’s be honest, it is disturbing.No, nu-uh, not okay. I’m calling the Sheriff; you call those FBI agents. I’m going to send a photo of it to Liam too, just to cover our bases.”
I nod as she goes to work contacting the local authorities. Turning the envelope over in my hands, I look at it as though it will tell me who is sending me these poems. The postmark is from Atlanta and dated the day before yesterday. Who would be anonymously mailing me anything from Atlanta? Why would anyone send me an anonymous poem in the first place, let alone two?
I open my text messages to read the text Savannah sent to our sibling group with a photo of the poem. Before I open her text, I see the message I sent to Walker the other day and my eyes go wide as my hazy memory clicks into place.
Mint chocolate chip ice cream.
Oh, crap on a cracker.
Dropping my phone, I suddenly remember calling him drunk the other night as bits and pieces of the conversation come back, increasing my humiliation by the second. I can’t worry about that right now, but Walker would want to know about this recent poem. I could just contact Harlow, but I’m too embarrassed to call anyone on his team after my drunk dial. Maybe I could call the Chicago detectives instead and have them pass this on to the FBI. They were the ones that told Walker and his team about the first note so it should be okay if they told them about the second one too, right? I realize that I’m being a chicken shit but between being humiliated by my drunk dial, and now creeped out by yet another poem, I can’t handle facing additional mortification on top of everything else.
I find Detective Johnson’s phone number and wait for him to pick up.
“This is Detective Johnson,” I hear over the phone. I adjusted so quickly to hearing people talk normal again since beingback in Tennessee that his thick Chicago accent is much more noticeable than I remember.
“Good morning, Detective Johnson. This is Vivian Stone. Do you have a moment to speak with me?” I ask and try to steady my voice.
“Mrs. Stone, of course. How can I help you, ma’am?” he asks.
“Unfortunately, I am calling to let you know I received another anonymous poem this morning. Even though it doesn’t mention Trent’s murder, the format is identical to the previous one, including the matching postmark,” I explain.
“Ah hell, I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. Can you tell me what the poem said?” he asks, and I read it over the phone to him. Detective Johnson tells me to put the poem and the envelope in a plastic bag in case they can lift any prints.
“My sister already contacted the local sheriff; I’m assuming you want him to pick it up again?”
“Yeah, and I heard you spoke to our friends at the FBI the other day, they’ll want to know about this too and see the lab results if there are any fingerprints or fibers left behind,” Detective Johnson says.
