Crush Crush

Chapter Eight

That was how Ryder found me, crumpled on the tile floor of my entryway, staring at the basket in silent horror, soft tears streaming down my face. He took one look at the basket on my porch, the confused, worried look on his face rearranging into anger. He grabbed the basket and strode over to the garbage can, tossing the horrendous thing away.

I was shaking as he gathered me in his arms, kicking the door closed behind him. He set me down gently on the couch and went to get me a glass of water. I stared at a spot on the carpet, my mind replaying the image of the basket on my front porch like a broken record.

"Isabel," he said my name, calling my attention to him.

"Who would do that to someone?" I whispered.

He sighed. "I don't know."

"I didn't do anything to anyone. I've never bullied anyone. My dad taught me to s-stand up to bullies and help others who can't help themselves. I d-don't know what I did to deserve such a hateful thing." My chest was heaving with soft sobs, but I tried to swallow them back. I will not cry in front of Ryder.

He pulled me against his chest, rocking me softly. "You didn't do anything, Isabel."

"Then why do they keep sending me those terrible baskets?"

He pushed me away to meet my eyes. "This wasn't the first time you received one of those?"

I shook my head. "I got one a few days ago. It was a doll's head and another picture of me, calling me a b-bitch." I had stopped crying, but my body still shook with unshed tears. "God, why me? Why did I do?"

Ryder cupped my face with his hands, bringing me close. "You did nothing wrong. This is just some sick prank. I'll take care of it."

. . .

Ryder tucked me into my bed and sat with me until I dozed off. I woke up later and reached for him, but the spot where he had stationed himself next to me was long cold. I glanced at my alarm clock—5:15 p.m. I had been asleep for a few hours. I got up and went downstairs in search for Ryder.

My house was empty.

I went to the kitchen and grabbed a pot, filling it with water before setting it on the stove to boil. I debated whether I wanted ravioli or spaghetti, before deciding that the former sounding more appealing. After watching the water slowly start to bubble, I dumped in half a bag of seven-cheese ravioli from Costco. They took fifteen minutes to fully cook. That was fifteen minutes I had to sit and think to myself about Ryder, the baskets, more Ryder, the vandalized pictures of me, naked Ryder.

I squeezed my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my nose. I wanted to call Chloe and spill my guts out to her, but something was holding me back. Just like when I received the first basket, I didn't want Chloe to know. I don't know why it was so important to keep that information from her, but I just knew that it was. Almost as if, I didn't want her to get hurt should the sick person leaving me these baskets decide to turn on her for knowing anything.

I quickly retrieved my laptop from my bedroom and brought it to the kitchen. After a few quick stirs of the ravioli, I hopped up on the kitchen counter and opened my computer and set to work researching symbolism of every item in the basket. While most of it was obvious—the vandalized picture and the dog shit—I wanted to know why someone would leave dead roses and beheaded Barbies.

I found a website that explained the use of dried roses and dolls—practices of voodoo. The voodoo practitioner made a doll in likeness of their intended victim. The doll's hair was painted a similar shade to mine, obviously meant to be portraying me. The dead roses had several variations, but the ones that stood out were symbols of dying love and the death of the victim. I exited out of the web browser and slammed my laptop shut. I put it on the counter beside me and ran my fingers through my hair.