Page 16 of Protected from Torment

The very thought of him fills my chest with unexpected warmth. My stomach flutters. My pulse skips.

Tyler seemed to understand. Even when I confessed who I was and what I did, he didn’t judge me. He could have left me at that table, but he didn’t. Instead, he stayed. Not just for a few minutes, but until the pub closed. For almost two hours, we talked about Oscar and his job with Blade and Arrow Security and our interests, like how he loves all things computers and shows like Ancient Aliens and Ghost Hunters.

“I don’t believe them,” he was quick to clarify. “I just think the shows are interesting to watch. I think if ghosts are real, they’re not going to let themselves be caught by some people creeping around with cameras.”

I actually watched a few episodes of Ghost Hunters, because of him. It’s not really my taste, but I just wanted to know what he was talking about.

That night at the Lakeside Inn, Tyler walked me to my room and even checked ‌inside to make sure it was safe. He advised me to wedge a chair under the doorknob as an extra precaution, and he put his number in my phone with the instruction to call if I needed anything.

I thought about texting him to see if he wanted to share breakfast the following morning, but I chickened out. I talked myself into thinking that he was just being polite when he told me to call. And I convinced myself he wouldn’t want to see me again, even if I secretly wanted to see him.

His number is still in my phone, though.

He actually texted me a few days after the night in Long Lake, just to check on me. I’m embarrassed to admit the hopeful jolt I felt when I saw his name appear on my phone. Not that things could go anywhere between us; not with Tyler in Oregon and me in New York, but still. I liked him. He made me feel things I gave up on after Vince died.

Tyler would listen. He wouldn’t immediately dismiss me.

But would he really want to get dragged into my drama?

Would he read my text and wish he hadn’t given me his number?

Would he feel obligated to help when he doesn’t want to?

“Ugh,” I mutter. This time, Oscar is fully asleep, so he doesn’t stir. Picking up the remote, I search through the menu until I find Parks and Rec. Maybe that will do a better job of relaxing me. Then I can make a cup of Sleepytime tea, read a little, and head to bed. Tomorrow, I decide, I’ll call the company that sent those toys. I’ll demand to know who placed the order. And I’ll solve the mystery myself.

Decision made, I click through the episode list until I find one of my favorites. Shifting on the couch, I cross my legs, pretzel-style, in front of me. Then I grab a throw off the back of the couch and cover my legs with it. Not because I’m cold, but because it’s cozy.

About ten minutes into the episode, there’s a heavy knock at the front door.

I jolt in surprise.

Oscar’s head jerks up.

My pulse leaps to double time, tripping unevenly.

I’m sure it’s nothing, I assure myself. Probably just a delivery driver at the wrong address. Or it’s possible the UPS guy is running late, and he just knocked to let me know my delivery is here.

But Oscar’s food isn’t supposed to arrive until Saturday. And the tracking for the bandana said it’s currently somewhere near Chicago. I haven’t ordered anything else. Unless…

Could someone have sent another unwelcome package, this time to my house instead of work?

I’ve been trying to convince myself the sex toy incident was all some weird misunderstanding. Maybe my name was on a mailing list that the company purchased, and somehow my name got swapped for someone else’s.

Do I really believe that? No. I’m hopeful, but not stupid. Someone sent that stuff to me on purpose. I’m just not sure who or why.

A heavy thunk sounds at the door again, sending my pulse somewhere into the stratosphere. I’m not typically this easily unnerved—ventriloquist puppet museums notwithstanding—but with everything that’s been going on at work…

Shoving the blanket off my lap, I reluctantly cross the living room to the front door. Now I wish I’d gotten one of those doorbell cameras installed, but I never get any visitors, so I didn’t think I’d need one.

Instead, I have to settle on peering through the tiny peephole, which isn’t particularly helpful considering it’s dark out and the porch light isn’t on. So, with only the moonlight to go by, I can’t tell much about my visitor other than it looks like a man wearing a baseball cap.

Taking a deep breath for courage, I call out, “Hello? Can I help you?”

There’s a long pause.

Then a deep voice replies, “I’m here for the package.”

My mind is still stuck on deliveries, so I say, “You can just leave it on the doorstep. Thanks.”