Page 86 of The Brickwall and the Bombshell

STOP! Now I’m thinking VERY dirty thoughts and I can’t leave until these videos are edited. Plus, I still have to stay alert for SOMEONE’S late game.

Me

For the pasta. Thank you for the pasta. It was a godsend. I hadn’t eaten all day and was basically withering away over here, but I think I’ll be able to make it now. You’re really sweet and I think I forget to tell you how much I appreciate you. So, literally thank you for everything.

There’s a longer pause and I’ve almost given up on a reply, assuming he had to go do something or I interrupted an early warm-up or something, when my phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Greer?”

Pulling the phone back, I confirm it is Mack on the other end. “Texting wasn’t enough for you, you needed me to thank you in person?” I ask, laughing lightly as I picture Mack’s eyes rolling.

“I didn’t send you that pasta… the food. Fuck! I didn’t send that to you.”

My stomach, the one that was feeling so full and happy just moments ago, now feels like it wants to rid itself of any and all contents. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I said.” His tone is harsh and gritty. “I didn’t send it to you. I need you to call Sophie and make sure she didn’t send it to you. Then, because I’m pretty sure she didn’t, I need you to go to the hospital.”

“The hospital?” I ask, my voice growing louder before I bring it back down to barely above a whisper. I don’t need the entire newsroom in my drama. “Why?”

“Because,” he pleads. “If it wasn’t me and it wasn’t Sophie, then it could only be one other person and you and I both know that could mean something bad. I don’t want to say it because that makes it real, but if this fucker…”

His words trail off and I can hear other people talking in the background. I’m assuming it’s Ross or Owen, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.

“Just please call Sophie and then call me back.”

I do what he asks and immediately call my friend. While I’m waiting for her to pick up, I pull up a search tab on my computer and type in “what should you do if you think you’ve been poisoned.”

I mean, Google never steers you wrong, right?

“Greer,” Sophie answers, sounding as panicked as I feel. “I was just getting ready to call you. Owen called and said I need to check on you. What’s going on?”

I give her a brief synopsis and I can already hear her starting her car before we end the call.

When I look around the bullpen, most people are busy or gone. I think about finding someone to tell what’s going on, but I don’t want to include anyone else in this mess. The fewer people, the better. It’s stressful enough as it is and if the entire staff knew a crazy person is after me, it would only make things worse.

Besides, I still feel fine.

I think.

Bending over, I dig through the trash and pull out the crumpled bag.

Surely there’s something here—a note, name, phone number. Maybe this is the moment this guy fucks up and gets messy. Detective Briggs has warned me about this and I’ve subconsciously been dreading the day, but now that it’s arrived, I’m just ready to catch this fucker.

The bag is empty, nothing written on it. No receipts.

Lifting the box that still has a few bites of food, I check the lid, and then the bottom. That’s when I see it. Small letters written faintly on the container, likely smudged from the heat or condensation, but I can still make it out.

You think you can hide. You think you can keep me away. You’re wrong.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Closing the lid to the box, I stuff it back into the crumpled bag and try to think rationally as I do a full body check.

Heart rate?

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