Page 17 of The Landlord
This guy doesn't have to know my dog is so tiny I can pick him up with one arm. The mental image of Doug charging at this guy's ankles almost breaks my serious expression, but I maintain my stare.
For a moment, he looks like he might argue further. Then his shoulders slump.
"Fine. Whatever." He shoves the package into my chest. "Just make sure she gets it."
I take the package without looking at it, my eyes never leaving his face. "Don't come back here."
"You can't stop her from getting deliveries."
"I can stop you specifically. Remember that." I step back, giving him space to leave. "Now get the fuck off my property."
He slinks away, throwing one last glance up at the windows before hurrying down the street. I watch until he's out of sight, the package heavy in my hand despite its small size.
Something's not right about any of this. Normal delivery guys don't act like that, don't insist on personal delivery, don't ask if you're someone's boyfriend. And they definitely don't look at a building like they're memorizing every detail.
I turn the package over in my hands. It's lightweight, about the size of a small book, with Alyssa's name and address printed on a label. No return address.
I head back inside, and Doug meets me at the top of the stairs, barking excitedly as if asking for a report.
"Good instincts, buddy," I tell him, scratching behind his ears. "You knew something was off about that guy."
Alyssa's waiting in her doorway, arms crossed over her chest. "What happened? You look murderous."
"We need to talk." I hold up the package. "About this, and about the guy who was trying to deliver it."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Is something wrong?"
I glance down the empty hallway, then back to her. "I don't know yet. But I don't think that was a real delivery guy, and I don't think this is a normal package."
6
ALYSSA
Istare at the small package in Damien's hands, a chill crawling up my spine despite the warmth of my apartment.
"What do you mean he wasn't a real delivery guy?"
Damien steps inside, closing the door behind him with his foot, the package between us like a ticking bomb. Doug trots over, sniffing at my ankles before settling at my feet.
"No uniform logo. No ID. Got defensive when I questioned him." Damien places the package on my kitchen counter, keeping his hand on top of it. "And he asked if I was your boyfriend."
My stomach drops. "Delivery people don't ask that."
"Exactly." His jaw tightens. "When I said yes, he looked ... upset."
A memory flashes—someone ducking behind a car in the parking area after our date. I dismissed it as paranoia, but now...
"I've been getting these comments on Instagram." The words tumble out in a rush. "Similar usernames. Always calling me 'thelove of my life' or saying we're 'destined to be together.' I blocked the accounts, but new ones keep popping up."
Damien's entire body goes rigid. "How long?"
"Six months? Maybe longer." I wrap my arms around myself. "I thought it was just typical internet creepiness, you know? You post content, you get weird comments. It comes with the territory."
"This isn't typical, Alyssa."
The package sits innocuously on the counter—plain brown, professionally labeled with my name and address. No return address. Just like the last three that arrived mysteriously.
"I've gotten packages before," I say. "Small things. A bracelet. A book of poetry with passages highlighted. A photo frame." My cheeks burn with embarrassment. "I thought they were from fans. Some of my followers send gifts sometimes."
