Page 47 of Crumbling Truth
I snorted. “I drove almost to Rochester, for fuck’s sake. Next time I’ll just order them online. I’m pretty sure the kid at the cash register thought I was about to host an orgy.”
Esther smirked at me. “Just how many did you buy?”
“Three of the biggest boxes I could find. Youareinsatiable, after all.”
Amusement lit her features, but she only hummed in response to the accusation. I took that to mean she agreed my purchase was worth the trip. While she pulled plates from the cupboard, I unpacked our food.
It wasn’t until we were seated at the table that she realized I had ordered the same pasta dish she’d gotten, since I didn’t want to inadvertently consume something that might trigger a reaction. When I explained my reasoning, she blinked back a sudden sheen of tears.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I said quickly, reaching for her hand across the table. “That’s nothing to cry about, is it?”
She shook her head and took a moment to compose herself before saying, “No, it’s just really sweet of you.”
When she cleared her throat and turned the conversation to the upcoming event that weekend, I didn’t protest. A low simmer of anger toward her selfish asshole of a husband had taken up residence in my gut, but I had no desire to bring forth anotherwave of tears. I tamped down those feelings and focused instead on the animated way she talked about the food truck, even though she confessed to being nervous in crowds.
Just as we were clearing the table, her phone chirped with a notification. Esther blinked in surprise before her eyebrows drew down.
“That’s my business email,” she explained, reaching for the phone. “Hopefully it’s not some issue for this weekend.”
I dried my hands on a towel while she checked it, but when her frown deepened, I joined her at the counter. She turned the phone toward me and I saw that it was a photo—a cupcake lying on pavement, smashed by the sledgehammer still embedded in the rubble of frosting and crumbs.
“What the hell?” I muttered, zooming in on the image. Around the cupcake were shards of what looked like peanut shells. “Is this some kind of joke?”
One glance at Esther’s face convinced me that she didn’t think so. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes a little too wide, her mouth tight. I pulled her into my arms without a second thought.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I murmured into her hair.
She nodded against my chest, but her body trembled ever so slightly under my hands. For another minute, I soothed her, keeping up a steady stream of reassurances as I rubbed my hands up and down her spine. When I drew back, I tipped her chin up so that she met my eyes.
“Has this happened before?”
With an unsteady breath, she shook her head. “No, nothing like this. I told you I got a few weird calls in the last couple days, though, always from private numbers. At first it was just hang-ups, so I figured it was just someone dialing the wrong number.”
“At first?”
“Today I answered one and it was like…heavy breathing. Like obviously someone was on the line, but they didn’t hang up right away. Later on, I had a voicemail that was the same.”
A jolt of adrenaline shot through me, though whether it was brought on by the quaver in her voice or the fury I felt over someone screwing with her, I couldn’t quite say. My arms tightened around her as I tried to settle myself down and think logically. She hadn’t given me many details about her husband, but I got the impression flying off the handle would scare the shit out of her.
No matter what, I was determined never to give her reason to fear me.
“Do you still have the voicemail?” I asked, stroking one hand along her back.
“Yes.”
“Good. Don’t delete the photo. We might be able to trace them. It’s probably just someone messing around,” I said as calmly as I could manage.
“Okay,” she mumbled.
I pressed my lips to her forehead, more a promise than a kiss. “And let me know if anything else like that happens, okay?”
Esther nodded and took half a step back, her shoulders squaring as her resolve strengthened. “I will. I’m sure you’re right. Just a stupid prank.”
“Why don’t we sit and you can give me the rundown on how this weekend will go?” I suggested.
She let me guide her to the living room and tuck her onto my lap in one corner of the loveseat. As she described the tree lighting event, I teased her about her organizational skills—the timeline she relayed from memory was impressively exact, right down to the minute.
“I see why my mother loves you,” I told her, kissing her temple.
