Mr. Expose,
I submitted a postcard to your blog. After sending it, I realized I shouldn’t have. May I request that you return the submission to me? I’ll be sending a self-addressed envelope to your postal box where you can send the postcard back. I believe I signed my name as ‘Betrayed Woman,’ or ‘Angry Woman.’
I apologize for my error and hope I’ve written you in time.
Thank you,
Angel
From: [email protected]
Dear Angel,
Thanks for following my blog and sending in a submission. I regret it’s against my policy to return any items sent in. I get frequent requests similar to yours. As you know, I have no real way of identifying you, since submissions don’t contain real names.
You can rest assured that no one will know you submitted the postcard. I am very serious about the privacy of my sources.
I’m happy to say I’ve received over 500 postcards already this year. Chances are yours will not be selected for a blog post on Mr. Expose. I hope this allays your fears.
Sincerely,
Mr. Expose
From: [email protected]
Mr. Expose,
I don’t think you understand. It’s important to me that I get the postcard back. Its return is crucial to my well-being. I couldn’t sign my name since your guidelines tell us not to, but you can easily pick my card out of a pile. It’s pink with some flowery things on the back. I’m putting a self-addressed envelope in the mail to your box. Please return my postcard.
Many lives will be damaged by my thoughtless and selfish submission if it is selected for a blog. Consider this more of a plea than a simple request.
Angel
From: [email protected]
Angel,
I do understand there is a measure of urgency to your request. Still, I cannot break policy. I could spend all my time with administrative tasks such as this.
In the future, I suggest you think through your actions more carefully. Impulsiveness is the downfall of many.
Please do not email again.
Mr. Expose
From: [email protected]
It’s not like I’m going to prison if I don’t get my card back, but I absolutely need to take care of destroying the postcard myself. Hindsight is 20/20 multiplied by a million. I completely see my mistake now. My thoughts were a jumbled mess when I wrote the postcard and revenge was my only goal. But I have no quarrel with the person my postcard will affect and I need to stop the publication. I am really, really sorry, but I must demand that you respond to my request.
From: [email protected]
Mr. Expose,
Did you receive my last email? I think you must have lost it or it’s in your spam folder. Please reply.
Angel
From: [email protected]
Mr. Expose???!!!
I’ve sent the envelope so you can return my postcard. I am begging you to be human. I realize you must think I’m irrational to want something you obviously consider unimportant, but come on. I know from reading your blog that you attempt to correct the wrongs of the world by exposing those who would be dishonest.
This postcard and information will only do harm at this point. You will destroy lives.
Angel
From: [email protected]
Mr. Expose,
I can’t keep writing you. You keep blogging and posting pics from random postcards, so I know you are in your stash of postcards often enough to do me the courtesy of a reply.
You are a postcard hoarding a-hole.
Yours truly,
Angel
My cell phone pings with an incoming message. I glance at the cell’s display and tap the message from my ex-girlfriend.
Tori: Don’t be King of the Assholes. Answer my calls. If you don’t, I will come in person.
King? I’m honored. Between the crazy woman texting me, and the one emailing about her postcard, there’s a consensus.
I’ve gone my entire life being known as the nice guy. Not anymore. I’ve wandered to the dark side. Maybe this is where I’ll find solitude, a place to get my manuscript finished for the agent who requested it.
Tori isn’t going to harass me into calling, and Angel Girl isn’t going to force me to dig out her postcard. I don’t hesitate this time when my cursor hovers over the email message.
Delete.
The Beauty of Lies
Chapter Two
Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop
Harper Angel Wade
Letting myself into a stranger’s apartment isn’t the worst of sins. Mr. Expose has something that belongs to me, and I intend to get it. I’m not a real criminal. I committed my last illegal act in grade school when I shoplifted a My Little Pony for a friend. Later, regret set in and I imagined being hauled away and thrown into the slammer. I took the toy back to the store and slipped it onto the shelf. Incarceration didn’t scare me as much as a tongue-lashing from my daddy, the town pastor.
Breaking and entering is my first official crime of adulthood. My decisions these days have returned to the devil-made-me-do-it variety.
I push a desk drawer closed and continue to search through the paperwork in a box on his desk. A water bill, a flyer, a grocery list.
There’s a pamphlet for renter’s insurance. Boy, does he ever need some. There are all kinds of nut jobs in this world who would rob him blind. If I could advise the guy on how to avoid this situation in the future, I’d be sure to tell him that his apartment was a break-in waiting to happen. He conveniently left a key for me right under the welcome mat; as if that isn’t the first place a burglar would look.