Wednesday early morning
The sun hasn't yet risen in the powder blue-gray sky. Sumner wraps her cardigan tighter around her shoulders, unable to sleep. She can still feel the burn of his kiss against her lips, the hardness of his mouth, the sureness with which he moved in on her.
She heads down her staircase, padding lightly toward the wall-length sliding glass accordion door. Great for indoor, outdoor living. Sumner chuckles once to herself, the ridiculous prices rich people will pay for doors. She imagines Lucas swearing at it, his voice low and gravelly, something alluring about him when she swears.
She steps out onto her backyard patio barefoot, the sound of the infinity pool soothing to her ears. She looks out over the horizon, her property's harsh edge shearing into oblivion.
Sumner takes another step forward but feels something under foot.
She looks down, her blood freezing in her veins.
Glancing to the side, behind her, paranoia making her dizzy, she wants a moment before lowering herself to the ground and taking the thing in her hands.
It's a piece of eggshell cardstock, folded once in half. A recurring nightmare she can't escape. She gags once, a dry heave slamming into her.
She opens the letter and reads.
CARPETS AND CAMERAS, FANS AND LOVE NOTES, CRIMSON STAINED SATIN FROM FLOATING SLIT THROATS.
"Fuck!" Sumner crushes the cardstock in her palm, crumpling its perfect clean edges in a misshapen ball. The sharp sides poke into her flesh so she squeezes tighter, softening it.
She looks around her yard one more time, almost expecting to see someone there, just standing. Waiting for her as casually as a friend.
Racing back into the house, she pulls the accordion door shut and locks it. Her back up against the glass she reaches inside the pocket of her cardigan and finds his number. Lucas.
"Sumner?" His voice is deep and groggy with sleep. She clutches the phone tighter, her voice hoarse when she tries to speak. She licks her lips and tries again.
"There's another one."
"Another one?"
"A letter." Her voice cracks and she feels her legs wobble and she slides down the glass and onto her butt, pulling her knees close to her chest.
"Fuck—where are you?" She can hear him moving quickly, like he's getting out of bed, pulling on clothes as he moves through his house.
"In my backyard. On the patio."
"Don't move. I'm coming."
Sumner keeps the phone clutched to her ear as she finally eases open her palm, staring at the ominous crumpled paper ball, now slightly damp with sweat.
"Don't hang up."
YOU ARE READING
The Podcast
Mystery / ThrillerSumner West is the voice behind the world's number one true crime podcast, West Coast Killers. As the siren of the mic effortlessly delivers the script of another six-figure ad, a shout in the hallway breaks through her studio-grade noise-canceling...
