His face was open and expressive; I got the feeling he was the kind of guy who couldn’t lie about what was on his mind. I also got the feeling he didn’t mind it about himself. All of him was dark and radiating the same warmth as his staff, though there was something else there. While the woman who’d let me in seemed very Californian, there was a different quality about Frederic. His eyes stood out the most, their blue a stark contrast to the rest of him.
“What?” I asked, catching that same thoughtful look in his eye. It came out harder than was necessary; he didn’t seem to care.
“Your voice doesn’t match your face.” He stepped past me, assessing the bottles that adorned a wooden liquor cabinet. It felt like a rude thing to say, until I caught Frederic grinning to himself. “At least, not what I expected.”
I crossed my arms again. “And, what did you expect?”
He looked at me like he didn’t know either. “Something… different, I guess. Would you like a drink?”
I raised an eyebrow. “It’s eight in the morning.”
“Right, right. Sorry, I’m used to hosting creatives with a penchant for day-drinking.” Frederic cast a look over his shoulder at the sprawling, sunny hills just outside his mansion. “Let’s take a walk.”
The mansion, like everything else, permeated light.
It wasn’t exactly a tour; just passing through to discuss business at a nicer location. We passed several staff members on our journey. They seemed happy here; several were talking and laughing quietly with one another as they went about their business. I caught another housekeeper singing as she listened to music and dusted. Our trek brought us to a balcony overlooking an immaculate blue pool.
Frederic’s body relaxed against a red canvas chair, the top two buttons of his shirt undone; the white was a clean, harsh contrast to his skin. I leaned my weight against the black metal railing.
“You can sit, you know—”
“I prefer to stand.” I pulled a slim notebook from my back pocket, a pen tucked into it. “Stevens referred me.” Down to business. I fixed him with a hard look. “So, I’m assuming the threat is serious, Mr. Reyes.”
“Fred is fine.” The easy smile faltered. “And… I’m not sure. I was hesitant to call, but I’ve, uh… I’ve been getting letters.”
“You’re a big name. Isn’t it typical to get letters on letters—”
“It is. And, I do get them. Undeservedly so.” I was surprised at how easily and amusedly he picked at himself. Self-deprecating. “The envelopes are always unmarked.”
I jotted down a few notes. “I’m guessing it’s not the usual fanmail?”
“Not exactly. A lot of talking about being soulmates and….” I looked up in time to see him roll his eyes. “Wanting to save me.”
“Save you from what?”
“Nuclear disaster. An imploding government. A gas crisis. The end of the world. I don’t know, it’s different every time.”
I felt a knot twist itself into my stomach. I wrote it down. “Do you have the letters here? For me to look at?”
I expected him to say no, or that he would have to get them. Instead, he leaned far enough to pull a slim envelope from his back pocket. “This is the most recent.” When I took it, he added, “There’s stuff in there about wanting his own movie, too. He’s been… extremely persistent about that.”
“Why do you think that is?” I held the letter in my hand, still folded.
Fred shrugged. “He said he was… inspired when I produced a film last summer. Some war epic. Says he saw it and that’s when he knew we were meant to be together.” There was a bittersweet smile on his face. “Maybe in any other context, I could consider it a romantic idea.”
“Maybe.” Something about it felt sour in my stomach, like a bad omen.
“I don’t know, though,” he said quickly. He averted his eyes, shrugging again, a fraction of his confidence chipping away. “Maybe I ought to be more understanding. The likelihood of this being serious is probably astronomically low. Like you said, it’s not unusual to get letters from superfans.”
I met his gaze again, and saw the subtle hope there. I knew what he wanted to hear: it’s nothing, or this will go away. I couldn’t tell him that. Neither were true. “I’ll be the judge of that.” I tucked the letter into the notebook. “Let’s say we find out who this person is. They make contact in-person. What do you want out of it?”
“Ideally, no more cryptic doomsday letters.”
“What about legal action?”
Fred grew silent suddenly, eyes turning down in thought. “I’d want to encourage them without legal action, if we can.” When he looked back at me, there was resolve in the blue of his eyes. “If we can reason with them, I want to do it. But, should things escalate… I’m not opposed to bringing the police into it. I don’t want anyone hurt by this. If they’re beyond reasoning, I want help for them.”
I studied him a moment, before nodding. “I’ll need names. Lists of friends, family, ex-lovers, employees. The staff here, and anyone who has access to your mail—”
Fred’s laughter took me by surprise. “That’s a long list, Mr. Meierz.”
“I like to be thorough.” He looked at me with a raised brow, and I looked back at the letter in my hands. “And, Hassan is fine.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Reyes.”
Fred and I looked at the sudden body that had appeared in the doorway: the tiny housekeeper who had let me in.
“Lorna,” Fred greeted, standing to meet her. He towered over her, too, closer to my height than her’s.
Lorna held out a crimson box, tied lightly with white ribbon. “This was left outside for you. On the doorstep—”
“Put it down!” I shouted, stepping towards her, hand stretched out.
“Hassan—!”
“It could be dangerous.” My words came out curt and detached. The situation was dangerous, even if Fred didn’t seem to think so—but he didn’t hire me to let him call the shots. “It was just left out there. It could be anything—a bomb, acid, anything dangerous—and you just brought it inside, unthinkingly—”
“That’s enough.” Frederic’s voice cut easily against mine. Again, the power of it surprised me. I met his eye challengingly and he looked back without wavering. “Lorna, if you would please….” He held out his hand for the box, looking to his housekeeper with a suddenly softer gaze.
Lorna, flushed red and curled in on herself, did as she was asked. Annoyingly, he thanked her, every letter like a backhand to me. I resisted rolling my eyes. Great. Another client who thinks he knows better.
“Give it to me.” The moment Lorna had disappeared through the balcony doors, I was next to Frederic. He handed it over without complaint.
I set it on the patio table, turning it over, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
“Please don’t bark at my staff.” Frederic’s voice was even, if not exasperated. The idea that he was annoyed by me was… well, annoying. Still, there was a command in his voice. This was his house, and he was a client.
Sometimes, I couldn’t help myself, though. “I’m not one of your staff. I’ll speak how I want.” I untied the bow.
He sighed, weighing something.“They don’t know about… all this,” Frederic spoke, sitting back in the chair, watching me.
I frowned at him, the disbelief painted across my face. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
“I’m not. I want them to feel safe—”
“They aren’t safe.” I was shocked at how careless one person could be.
“They were.” Frederic paused, eyeing the box with an uncomfortable level of suspicion. “Until now, I guess. I don’t know. This is the first thing to come to my home. Everything usually goes through my assistant or agent first.”
My work was cut out for me. Not only were there letters and a clear pattern for stalking; now, the stalker knew where he lived. I sighed, turning back to undressing the box. “You need to tell them.”
The defeat w
as palpable in Fred’s voice. “I’ll have a meeting tonight.”
The ribbon fell away, and I could feel the tension in my fingers. My mind was racing, every horrible thing that could possibly be in here cataloging itself quickly in my brain. Anything that could blow my hands off the moment the lid was lifted; something meant to poison or disfigure Frederic.
I could feel the tension in Fred, too, watching, leaning in next to me as he waited.
I bit the bullet. The top lifted.
There was no explosion. No sudden burning feeling, no fire, no cause for sickness.
Inside, sat a stuffed heart, red and plush and bright, slashed in half, it’s white cotton insides spilling out over the tissue paper.
3
Fred
“Where are you going?”
I was by no means short, but I had to put a little pep in my step to keep alongside Hassan as he cut through the mansion’s foyer, pushing out the front door. I was a little panicked; was he leaving? Was this too strange a case even for him? Maybe he had a worse temper than I initially thought, and was angered by the fact that I’d kept things of this nature from my staff.
Reaching out, I placed a hand on his shoulder as he came to a stop of his own accord, facing down the landscaped driveway.
“Look,” I huffed, “I’ll tell the others; this is the first… first token I’ve gotten like this and I know this is probably a lot for one meeting, but—”
“Stop talking.” His voice cut through mine easily, edged with a kind of deep and dangerous quality that warmed the back of my neck.
Rude. My hand fell from his shoulder, giving him his moment of silence. “...If you can’t handle it, then say so.”
For the first time since opening the box, Hassan looked me in the eye; I wasn’t used to looking slightly up at someone, and his pale, cold eyes stared back at me with some unreadable emotion. The hardness there softened as they turned back to the driveway.
“I’m looking for signs that they’re still here. Still monitoring.” I could tell by the clipped tone of his voice, he was still annoyed. That was fine; I could deal with annoyed.
“You think they’re still here?”
“It’s possible they want to see your reaction.” He paced down the driveway slowly, the crunch of dirt and rock under his boots loud in the silence. “They want approval. From you. The box wasn’t a warning as much as it was a gift.”
I wanted to ask how he could possibly know that, before remembering it was his job to know.
“The heart in the box—” I said. Hassan turned away from the mountains and looked at me with the same questioning expression. “It could be… an ex-lover. A boyfriend or someone I might have hurt without realizing it. Someone trying to tell me they feel heartbroken.”
I wasn’t a detective by any means, but I wanted Hassan to agree with me. It would narrow the suspects down considerably; it would make things easier. That’s what I wanted to hear. Instead, Hassan shook his head.
“I want to try to trace their route. See which way they came up and how they were able to access the front porch without being detected.” He turned sharply on his heel, heading back towards the house. This time, I stayed in step with him. “Do you have any security cameras?”
Anticipating Hassan’s reaction, I frowned. “No.”
He didn’t bother concealing the sour look on his face.
He insisted next on a proper tour of the estate.
I lead him from top to bottom, though this was a much more clinical showing than I was used to. The typical guest was someone artsy or important: writers and executives, models or actors, producers, Hollywood folk. Instead of asking me where I’d picked up the painting hanging in an office, Hassan pointed out that the windows were unlocked, which was, as he put it, “irresponsible and asking to get broken into.” Every room we entered inspired a dozen totalitarian thoughts of where we could put surveillance cameras. The only thing he seemed to like was how high the ceilings were in the living room.
“Where does your staff stay?” he asked, snooping through the fourth guest bedroom we’d seen. “Do they commute in? If so, I’d like to see where they keep their cars, their things while they are here—”
“They stay here.”
Hassan stopped his rummaging. “Full-time?”
“If they’d like, yes. The rent is small, but a sizeable portion of the mansion is used for housing staff and their families. They’re smaller suites, but—”
“That’s….” Hassan paused, brows pushing together. “Thoughtful.” I almost smiled. “But irresponsible.”
“I have enough to share with the people who assist me.”
Hassan grunted, trying to keep professional, though I could sense the tension from a mile away. “I’ll need to see those as well. All of them. And, I’d like to meet with your staff to brief them on the situation as soon as possible.”
An instinct to protect swept over me instantly. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Something flipped in Hassan; a quiet switch that had him squaring his broad shoulders just a bit more. I tried not to look at them. “And I think it is necessary. Mr. Reyes—”
“Fred.”
“Christ, Fred. You called me to assess the situation. I’m assessing it, and telling you what I think is necessary.” He took a breath, sighing through his nose. “Would you please assemble your staff for me to meet before I leave today?”
“...You’re right.” I knew he was right, and for some reason, I felt pulled in two different directions: relieved and irritated. “The parlor,” I told him, turning sharply. “Ten minutes.” The tour ended there.
It only took me five minutes to gather everyone in the parlor, the familiar faces of my staff filtering in and arranging themselves on the plush orange sofas that curled through the open room. Even the pair of groundskeepers wiped the cut grass from their boots and sat there amongst the others, shears resting in their laps. Silently, Hassan seemed to approve of how quickly they’d gathered.
“My name is Hassan Meierz.” He stood at the front of the room, and I let him have the space, leaning against the pillar of the fireplace, arms crossed. With his dark clothes, cold eyes, and rugged demeanor, he looked like a hitman out of an action movie. If the situation were different, I thought, I’d even find it rather sexy.
“I was called here by Mr. Reyes to begin a security detail at this residence. As I’m sure you’re all well aware, Mr. Reyes is what we consider to be a high-profile individual in this community, which makes him more likely to be the victim of a break-in, of theft, or any other assorted crime. Since most of you both work and live here, that would also put you at risk.” Hassan paused, eyes flicking over to me before returning to the staff.
“So there’s going to be a few alterations to the way things are run around here—”
“Nothing entirely major,” I assured, before nodding for Hassan to continue. I watched my housekeepers’ faces grow more and more confused, some of them looking at me, waiting for me to say something.
“First and foremost, you aren’t to gather any mail or packages that are delivered to this residence. That’s something my team and I will handle from now on.”
I wanted to step in, wondering about what team, but I let him continue. Getting into an argument in front of the others would only make things seem even more unstable.
“We will also be installing security cameras in the house and around the perimeter.” Some people shifted on the couch, looking at one another.
One young woman, Rhonda, raised her hand. I knew her well; she was one of two personal chefs, and a single mother who lived on the estate with her daughter. “Does that include bathrooms? Or our personal suites?”
“Not bathrooms,” I interjected, before Hassan could even open his mouth. He looked at my sternly. I shook my head. “No bathrooms.”
“No bathrooms,” he agreed, not sounding the least bit happy about it. “The suites will have outside surveillance, but, for the momen
t, there’s no reason to suspect anyone here would… be a suspicious person. Should that change, the protocall will change accordingly.”
Hassan looked to me as he said it, as if there would be no discussion about it.
“I’ll be calling my team,” Hassan said, pulling an ancient-looking flip phone from his back pocket. It looked like the kind drug dealers and spies had in films.
“You’re not putting cameras into the homes of my staff—those spaces are private, Hassan.” The staff had since been dismissed, and it was only Hassan and I in the large parlor.
His fingers stopped texting for a moment; I think the use of his name so candidly surprised him, or maybe it was my tone. In any case, I noticed his eyes as they flicked from my eyes to my mouth and back, before he frowned, turning back to his phone.
“You said earlier I was right. This is my business, Fred, I know what I’m talking about. Besides,” and he shut his phone tightly in his hand, “like I said, no cameras inside unless they become a person of interest.”
That reminded me: “You didn’t tell them the truth. About why I asked you here.” I sat on the edge of the sofa, watching him. He found the underlying question easily.
“That’s up for you to disclose, not me.” Just as a felt the slightest bit of relief, though, Hassan stripped it away. “But, you need to tell them. It isn’t fair to them.”
Guilt crept through my stomach. “I know.”
“I’ll be ordering the cameras, and I’ll have one of my partners come by to collect an established list of residents, as well as people who are often here. We’re going to need names, phone numbers. We’ll also need the license plates for any vehicles you have or of whoever drives you places—”
“Hold on! Hold on.” I almost laughed at the speed with which things were going. “It’s barely ten in the morning, I’ve known you two hours—if that—and already you’re turning my house into a goddamn prison, when—” and this time I did laugh, gesturing to my house, “—I haven’t even signed a contract yet.”
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