Before I hand over the task of opening, reading, and distributing the letters and packages, I want to see the kinds of things people are sending. I asked for homemade gifts if possible, things that were personal, that might reach someone from beyond the veil of addiction.
I start with a package on the top of the heap. Inside is a knitted blanket and a note: This too shall pass.
I like that. Simple. Effective. This is going to make someone’s day. I set it to the side, and open up a few more packages, revealing a clumsy but cute clay mug, a pair of pink pajamas, and a framed photograph of a Hawaiian beach scene.
Happy enough with that, I move on to some of the letters. Oddly, a few of them are addressed specifically to Gabriel, though the senders have used the PO Box I specified in the advertisement. I don’t think anything of it, and start opening letters. The first couple are lovely—messages of support, personal anecdotes, kind words. Exactly the kind of thing I was looking for.
Then I get to one of the envelopes that has been addressed to Gabriel. I am confused to find that the letter has been written to Gabriel personally. The more I read through, the more my confusion gives way to fury.
It’s fan mail. For Gabriel. But it’s far from the sort of innocent fan mail a pop star might receive from an obsessed teen. The letter is filthy. The woman who wrote it promises to love Gabriel forever, even if he is guilty, and there’s a strong suggestion that it might be even sexier if he was.
I snatch another of the letters with Gabriel’s name from the pile and open it. More fan mail. I start going through all the letters, horrified that apparently Gabriel’s crimes have garnered him the same kind of fan base enjoyed by psychopaths like Charles Manson. These women all offer to wait for him. They would do anything for him to write back. They adore him.
Who are these bitches? And don’t they know that he’s mine? Somebody should tell them.
I storm over to my desk and whip out a pad of paper and a pen. I set the tip of the pen to the page, and suddenly I feel ridiculous. Am I actually going to respond to some pathetic fan mail? That’s crazy. These women don’t stand a chance with him. There’s no need for me to feel jealous. So why am I so protective?
Because he’s mine, a small voice hisses in my mind. And because anyone who has the audacity to think otherwise needs to be shown the error of their ways.
I shake my head and clear it of those poisonous thoughts. Just then, my receptionist buzzes me.
“Yes?” I answer, grateful for the distraction.
“Um, I have a Ruby Flint here to see you,” Laura says uncertainly. “She doesn’t have an appointment.”
Ruby Flint. Fuck.
Whatever it is that the lead detective on Gabriel’s case wants to say to me, I know it can’t be good.
“Yeah, let her in,” I say, and sit straight in my chair as I wait for her to enter.
Laura shows Ruby in and leaves us, closing the door.
Ruby is a pretty woman of around forty, with auburn hair and arguably severe features. When she looks at me, it feels as though needlepoints dig into my skin. I don’t know what her deal is, and not knowing bothers me. I don’t think she’s in her job because she likes to help people, nor do I think she particularly cares about serving justice to those who deserve it. She is in this for something else. I just don’t know what.
“Lovely to see you, Ms. Flint,” I greet, gesturing for her to sit. I am pretending that her showing up here hasn’t rattled me, but it has. And I’m afraid she sees it.
“Lovely to see you too,” Ruby replies in a falsely cheery tone. She points to the stack of packages and letters as she walks across the room. “All your adoring fans?”
“They’re for the rehabilitation program,” I reply. “A lot of the addicts we take in don’t have anyone else. It can be hard to want to change if there’s nothing grounding you, so I thought it might help to show them that there are people who support them.”
Ruby’s eyes lift in surprise. “How very thoughtful of you.”
The way she says it is demeaning, like she thinks I am doing the absolute bare minimum. I try not to let it bother me. I have to be stronger than this.
“After our last chat, you left such a strong impression that I looked into you,” Ruby says airily.
By “our last chat” she is referring to the moment when I cornered her just outside of the police department and warned her not to continue looking into Gabriel’s case. I’d been talking about the investigation with one of my old colleagues at the Union, who mentioned that he’d once seen Ruby at a sex club he’d infiltrated for an article, and she was there with someone other than her husband. It seemed like too good of an opportunity to pass up.
It was a rash move on my part, considering I actually had nothing concrete with which to blackmail her, but I was desperate to do anything I could to help clean up the mess I’d made.
I have to be careful not to acknowledge any wrongdoing on my part. She might be recording me.
“Oh yes?” I say. “And what did you find?”
“Your article on the purple heroin crisis was the first result to come up in the search, of course,” Ruby replies. “I was surprised. I remember the article coming out, and how much of a stir it caused, but I didn’t realize it was written by Gabriel Bellucci’s girlfriend.”
“That’s because I’m not just Gabriel Bellucci’s girlfriend,” I reply, baring my teeth in what could barely be considered a smile. “I’m a journalist. I’m a businesswoman. And I’m a force to be reckoned with.”
This is as much as I dare threaten her right now. I hope it’s clear enough.
“I’m sure you are,” she simpers condescendingly. Looking around at my office, she nods. “I can really see how far you’ve gotten in the world on your merits. I mean, look at the view from here. All those people you get to look down on from the top of your boyfriend’s office building.”
I want to punch her. Her cheekbones are so sharp that it looks like they might cut me if I did, but it would be so worth it.
“You’re not just all those things, though, are you?” Ruby continues. “You’re also a mother. But more importantly, you’re a daughter.”
Her lips curl, and I already know whatever venom she is about to spit, it will make me furious.
“What do you think the great Harry Wright would think if he could see you now?” Ruby taunts. “Doing your boyfriend’s dirty work. Making pathetic threats. Tossing away all your morals for the sake of a man.”
My blood boils. I clench my hands into fists, feeling my nails dig into the meat of my palm. I focus on the pain, on the distraction. If I don’t, I know I’ll do something I regret.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I force myself to say.
Ruby’s eyes glint. “Sure you don’t.” She stands. I nearly sigh with relief. She will be gone soon.
But Ruby doesn’t leave right away. She lifts up the framed photo of Harry on my desk and stares at it, smiling wistfully.
“It’s a shame, really,” she says with a sigh. “You were a disappointment to your father, and now you’re going to be a disappointment to your son too.”
I explode, jolting to my feet.