My apartment was only three blocks from the Art House.

If you asked Google Maps, it should've taken less than five minutes to get there. But Google Maps didn't understand how absolutely necessary it was to stop at every tree, parked car, and moderately tall retaining wall so Bodie and I could take turns kissing the ever-loving shit out of each other.

When we finally make it to the front stoop of my building, I stuck one hand up my paint-spattered shirt.

Bodie made a choked sound at the back of his throat.

"My key," I said in explanation as I fished it out of my bra.

Inside, I led the way to the second floor and held open my door while I fumbled for the light switch. The apartment looked like it belonged to aspiring hoarders. The kitchen counters were littered with In-N-Out wrappers and cups, and the mess of clothes and make-up in the bedroom and bathroom were visible from the doorway.

"I'll clean up tomorrow," I murmured.

I turned to shoot Bodie a self-deprecating smile.

But his eyes were on his feet.

I caught a glimpse of magazine cut-out letters (which had been arranged into colorful words such as DIE and LIAR and BITCH) a half a second before he bent to pluck up the piece of paper on the kitchen floor.

"Laurel," he said, "what's—"

His face went slack with horror.

"It's almost Halloween," I offered up in weak explanation. "It's probably a prank—"

But he knew about the cut-and-paste notes the Daily had received. There was no use insulting his intelligence.

"Who would do this?" Bodie asked, turning the paper over in his hands to check the backside, like he half expected to see a return address.

"A lot of people are still mad about the article," I murmured.

Bodie's eyes searched my face.

"This isn't the first one you've gotten, is it?" he asked.

He could probably already read it on my face, but I shook my head for clarity's sake.

"There was another one," I admitted. "Earlier. When the Daily got theirs. I got the same kind of—the same kind of note. It's okay."

Bodie blinked incredulously.

"This is not okay, Laurel," he said, and for a split second I thought he was talking about the fact that I'd kept the first note a secret from him. "This is your apartment. This is your home. Somebody knows where you live. Somebody got into your—they got in your building—"

"I know," I interrupted.

Bodie exhaled sharply.

He looked angry. He looked horrified.

He looked defeated.

"I can't tell you what to do," he said. "And I know you like to handle things on your own. I know that's what makes you comfortable. And I didn't say anything when Kyle fucked up your car and you didn't want to get the police involved, but Laurel, this—" he shook out the note, "—scares me."

"I know," I repeated miserably.

"It's your choice. But I am asking you to please, please tell someone about this."

My first instinct was panic. Blinding, suffocating panic.

But then I thought of Sarah.

"I'll go to the police station," I said.

Bodie nodded, pleased with the answer.

"Can I come with you?"

He'd said he'd follow me anywhere. I don't think either of us had realized just how soon the occasion to prove the claim would strike.

My spark of confidence dimming as I looked down at myself.

"We can't go now, Bodie. It's like two in the morning. And we're covered in paint."

"First thing tomorrow, then," he said. "We can crash at Shepherd's apartment. I have a meeting with Gordon in the morning, but it's not until—you know what, it doesn't matter. I can cancel on him if I need to. I'm coming with you."

The selfish part of me was relieved, but I didn't want to be the reason Bodie lost out on more playing time (if that's what his meeting was about).

"Are you sure?" I asked. "If you need to see Gordon—"

Bodie shook his head.

"I'm going with you," he insisted.

With our plans for the morning decided on, I knew I needed to warn Hanna not to come back to the apartment, just in case whoever had dropped off the note came back. I washed my hands in the kitchen sink and extracted the plastic bag with my phone out of my back pocket.

Got another note, I texted her. Bodie saw. Going to police tomorrow morning. We should all sleep at Andre's to be safe.

"Hey, Laurel," Bodie said.

I was still typing. I hummed distractedly.

"Laurel," he repeated, his voice oddly hollow.

I looked up.

Bodie was still holding the note. His face had gone pale under the streaks of blacklight paint.

"I think this is my fault," he said.

I blinked at him.

"And why do you think that?" I asked.

"Did you—did you have paychecks sent here from the country club?"

"Yeah."

"So Rebecca would have access to your address, right?"

"Rebecca?" I repeated, frowning hard. "You don't think she'd..."

But she would. This was absolutely something she'd do.

"But she fired me," I thought out loud. Sure, she didn't like me—she'd told me to go back to Mexico—but she'd already fired me. "Why would she bother sending me death threats?"

Bodie swallowed.

"Because I wrote the owner of the club," he said with a wince. "I'm so sorry, Laurel. I don't know—I don't know if they reprimanded her, or—I was just really mad for you. I didn't think it would do any harm to say something."

I exited out of my texts and clicked open the LinkedIn app.

With a little searching (since I'd unconnected with her after she'd fired me), I pulled up Rebecca's profile. The headline under her name read: Communications and Project Management Specialist seeking full-time position.

I pressed a hand over my mouth and met Bodie's eyes again.

"You got her fired," I said into my fingers.

His face pinched with guilt.

"Oh, God, Laurel. I'm so sor—"

I tossed my arms around his neck and kissed him.

When I pulled back, all he could do was blink at me in stunned silence.

"You got her fired," I repeated, almost laughing.

I could've complained to the owner of the club. I could've written a long, vibrantly-worded email, or an article for the Daily about how Rebecca had treated me. And, chances were, my accusations would've bounced off ears that didn't want to hear from me.

But Bodie? Bodie was the star quarterback of a multi-million-dollar collegiate program. His words held weight.

It wasn't fair. I knew that. But so did Bodie.

And that's why he'd spoken up for me.

❖ ❖ ❖

In the morning, Bodie and I discovered that we'd been so busy making out on Andre's couch that we'd forgotten to move my clothes into the dryer. Bodie lent me a pair of his joggers (I rolled the waistband about four times and cuffed the pant legs) and a Garland football t-shirt (which I had big plans to forget to return) to wear to the Garland Police Station.

It was not the way I'd wanted to spend my Sunday morning.

The first officer we spoke to seemed to know absolutely nothing about the previous report Ellison had made. Rather than look up the file, he asked a frustratingly repetitive line of questions.

Why had someone else reported the first note I'd gotten? Because Ellison got a note, too, and she and I were efficient like that. How had I discovered the first note in my apartment? I'd stepped on it. The second? Bodie had stepped on it. Did I have the original? Yes, I'd brought it in a clear plastic folder. The first note? You already have it, dipshit. Did I see anyone suspicious in my building? No, it'd been empty. Did I see anyone suspicious on the street? No, but I'd been a little bit distracted. With what?

Bodie cleared his throat. His pink cheeks gave us away.

"Do you have an ex-boyfriend who might've sent these?" the officer ventured to ask.

Bodie explained the Rebecca situation.

"Are you sure you don't have an ex?" the same officer pressed, cutting Bodie off before he could show him the email he'd sent the manager of the country club. "Someone you cheated on, maybe? Or somebody whose heart you broke?"

"I wrote the Vaughn article," I said.

Our officer blanched with embarrassment and called in the sheriff.

❖ ❖ ❖

I fully intended to be the one to drive us home, afterward. But Bodie took one look at my trembling hands and ushered me into the passenger's seat.

The ride back to campus was quiet—painfully so, the first few minutes. Then, when we stopped at a red light, Bodie turned to look at me.

"I really want to hold your hand right now," he said, "but I'm not the greatest driver, and I have to keep both hands on the wheel or my mind just goes all over the—"

I reached across the console and set my hand on his thigh.

"Thank you," I murmured.

When we reached the parking garage across the street from The Palazzo, Bodie pulled my car into a rare empty space on the first floor and cut the engine. In the quiet that followed, we both sighed wearily. I glanced over at him—at the beautiful lines of his profile—and then leaned across the console to press a kiss to his cheek.

"When are you meeting Gordon?" I asked.

Bodie glanced at his phone.

"In twenty minutes. We made good time."

I smiled.

"What are you going to do?" Bodie asked me.

I sighed.

"I should tell Ellison."

I tried calling her. No answer. I left a voicemail, but the second I was done rambling and said my goodbyes, I knew I wouldn't be able to sit still until I'd told her everything.

Screw it. I'd try to catch her at her place.

"I'm gonna run to her apartment," I told Bodie.

"Do you want me to come?" he asked.

"No, don't worry about it. Go talk to Gordon. I can handle this by myself."

Bodie nodded, and I appreciated that he didn't push it. I appreciated that he trusted I could, in fact, deal with my own problems.

We climbed out of my car and made our way out to the sidewalk, where we stopped to say our goodbyes. The mood was solemn. I wasn't a fan. So I reached out, gave Bodie a quick pat on the butt, and said, "Go Lions!"

He blinked at me in surprise.

"I've always wanted to do that," I admitted with a shrug. "School spirit."

Bodie shook his head.

"You're such a loser," he said. But he tugged me close and kissed me again before we went our separate ways, to fight our separate battles.

❖ ❖ ❖

I was halfway down the alley next to the Jewish House when my phone vibrated.

Ellison Michaels was returning my calls.

I'm not sure why I was at all surprised by her impeccable timing. Ellison was a divine cosmic entity capable of sensing every point of development in an unfurling story. Of course she knew I was on my way to her building.

"Hi! Hi, it's me," I answered.

"Laurel, I need to talk to you," she said. "In person. Can you come to my apartment?"

"I am literally turning onto your block right now. Listen, I think I know who's been sending the notes."

I waited for a gasp, or a question, or a witty remark, or something. But there was only silence from her end.

I'd never known Ellison to be so quiet.

"You there?" I asked.

A little twist of unease in my stomach was my warning sign.

Ellison breathed in and said, in a small and shaky voice that was very much unlike her, "They found her. They found Josefina."

_________________

I know this is a cruel place to end a chapter but, like, what's new?This story is 75% cliffhangers and 25% puns.

Some of you guessed Kyle was behind the notes. A couple of you worried Bodie might be sending them (my son would NEVER). A lot of you suspected Ryan, which was fun, because I was really concerned it was gonna be far too obvious that Rebecca was the one sending them! If you have any leftover questions about the notes, please ask away. Your questions will help direct my editing process!

Next week is a big one. The nomination round of The Fiction Awards 2019 closes on Monday, June 3 11:59PM GMT. The Watty Awards open on June 4 (fingers crossed it's just like last year and you have to have posted your book on or after August 2, because I started Whistleblower on August 3 and I'm worried they'll make it August 4 and I'll be ineligible) (this is my brain on anxiety). THIS BOOK WILL BE COMPLETE ON FRIDAY. I plan on posting M/W/F with a pair of bonus updates on Friday (an author's note and a fan art collection with all the covers and aesthetics people have made me over the last year). And then, you know, I'll cry.

Your friendly author,

Kate