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  “You’re young, pretty, and good hearted,” Hazel says. “You’re bound to attract your fair share of jealous friends as well as creeps. Trust me, I’ve seen my share of weirdos but this one takes the cake. The cops are finally here, thank God.”

  The police SUV parks right under the “No Parking” sign. Ruca, eight pounds of fierceness, yips up a soprano aria, as the uniformed cops make their way toward us.

  “Do you want me to stay?” Hazel asks.

  “Nah, I’m cool. Thanks for waiting with me as long as you did.”

  “No problem.” She plucks Ruca off the ground. “If you need anything, just knock.”

  “Will do.” I salute her. I answer the officers’ questions. Yes, I’ve received a handful of weird letters in the past, but it’s been about a year since the last one. No, I don’t have a clue who would want to do something like this. My work? I’m a ‘consultant for high end corporations’.

  This kind of intrusion isn’t normal in my profession. Does anyone have a key to my place? Hmm. Not since I moved six months ago. Fresh locks. Fresh keys.

  “I’ll walk you inside,” I say.

  “Best if we check out your place first,” one of the cops says.

  I hand him my keychain. “Unit 1211.”

  “It’s normal to feel scared,” says Detective Novak the female officer who stays behind with me. “It’s a violation. Do you have anyone you can call, Ms. Berlinger? Family? A friend?”

  “Yes,” I say, then think about it. “But they’re probably working.”

  “Night shift’s a bitch,” she says. “Stay here. One of us will be back in no time.” She walks inside, the door swinging shut behind her, leaving me all alone on a humid, big city evening under a hazy night sky. I pull out my phone and swipe the pictures I took of the letter the intruder left. And I read:

  Dear Evelyn:

  * * *

  It’s been two years. I had hoped by now you would have grown your hair back. But there is no covering, there is no modest Evelyn, there is only boastful Evelyn. Proud Evelyn. Evelyn who flaunts everything she has.

  * * *

  And this disturbs me.

  * * *

  I’m not sure what to do about this. I’m weighing options. I’m just a mess inside and yet you sleep easily. Some days I can’t eat and worry gnaws at my bones.

  * * *

  And I wonder — what if Evelyn doesn’t have a covering and some kind of sicko realizes that and picks a fight with her? Evelyn used to be awfully nice, but she’s changed. She shows off. She’s entitled. Now she’s putting herself out there. Right there in the crosshairs for just the right predator to come around and take, take, take whatever they want from Evelyn. Whatever they crave.

  * * *

  What do you think they’ll take first, Evelyn? Your covering’s gone. I’m disappointed in you. So very disappointed. I’ve been silent a while, but I can be silent no more. I just had to say something. I hope you don’t mind.

  * * *

  I only want your best, Evelyn.

  * * *

  I am, as always,

  * * *

  Your Devoted Fan

  I shiver, shove my phone back in my purse, and slide down the brick wall until my ass hits the pavement. I stare east at the lights twinkling off the skyscrapers in Chicago’s downtown business district. By day the Loop is the working capital of the Midwest, chock full of lawyers, bankers, and money makers. I probably make more than eighty percent of those folks.

  I’m twenty-six years old and recently cracked seven figures a year. I didn’t invent a miracle drug that cures cancer. I didn’t configure a social media platform that went viral. I wouldn’t know how to build a hot money making app if it flew through the air and punched me in the eye. I earn big money because I’m a 21st Century Courtesan. Beautiful, broken, wealthy men hire me to help them heal.

  I’m empathic. I feel what they’re feeling in my body. Their core wounds twist through me and I identify the emotions behind them. What is rooting about in my belly? His shame. What’s the sensation compressing my chest? His heartache.

  The men I help are titans of their industries. When I serve up their fucked up belief — the thing that’s shutting them down – all neat and pretty tied with a bow on a platter – I offer them deliverance. I grant them absolution. Once they’ve got the keys to their kingdom in hand, they don’t need me anymore. And with the exception of Dylan McAlister, the first client I helped over a year ago – I never hear from them again.

  But right now, I’m not feeling all Glinda the good witch sparkly waving her wand about, dispensing magical ruby slippers. Right now, I’m just a scared twenty something girl huddling alone next to her building wearing leggings and a “Will Give Medical Advice for Tacos” T-shirt at night in a big city neighborhood. I desperately need family but that fantasy fractured a long time ago. I break down and text Amelia.

  Evie: You around?

  Amelia: Working. Can’t talk right now.

  Amelia: You OK?

  Evie: Yeah. Something weird.

  Amelia: Nothing with Movie Star, right? The L.A. gig’s still on.

  Evie: Nothing with Movie Star.

  Evie: No worries. Talk later.

  Amelia: K.

  Amelia: Text me if you need anything.

  I stand back up and pace a few yards in front of the building, practically carving a trench in the sidewalk. I’m not going to call Dylan my part-time boyfriend. I haven’t seen him in a few months. Over a year ago he thought that if I cut off all my hair I’d be safer. Better able to ward off whatever stalker problems I might have had. As much as I love this man, God, he can worry with the best of them.

  I can’t call my mom. She’s pissed off at me, huddled in her suite at the mental health Institute binge streaming shows because I canceled our vacation to the lake house. I also can’t call Ruby. She left Meth Head boyfriend, graduated to Married Man boyfriend, and is still tragically useless in the support department. I’ll be damned if I’m calling Madame Marchand unless my hair catches on fire and there’s no water available in a mile wide radius.

  But I really don’t want to be alone. I text Victoria.

  Evie: Hey. Good time to talk?

  Victoria: Perfect. What’s up?

  I text back so fast my thumbs are tripping over each other. I fill her in that someone broke into my place and left a jewelry box filled with hair on my bed.

  Victoria: Wait a minute. What? Holy shit on a shingle!

  Victoria: Someone left a jewelry box with hair on your bed?

  Victoria: That’s wacked.

  Victoria: On my way.

  Evie: Don’t --

  Evie: Seriously, the cops are already here.

  Victoria: Good. I would have called them if you hadn’t. See you in 10.

  She’s here in five. We sit cross legged on the sidewalk. “Who do you think would do this?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know but didn’t something like this happen to you?”

  “Yes,” she says, lighting matches and blowing them out. “Did the weirdo leave a letter?”

  “Yes.” I hold out my phone to her.

  She swipes through the photos and shudders. “Jesus. This isn’t about me, but it brings back crappy memories. I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”

  The cops return 45 minutes later.

  “Ms. Berlinger,” Detective Novak says. “Nothing’s missing? Is that correct?”

  “Right.”

  “Plenty of times folks discover things missing later. Don’t hesitate to call me.” She hands me her card. “We’re taking the box to the lab and going to run it for prints. The lab will analyze the hair but I’m pretty sure it’s synthetic. I’ve known my share of weaves and wigs.”

  “Me too,” Victoria pipes up.

  “Feel free to call us or we’ll get ahold of you,” she says, steps back in their SUV and they drive away.

  My home has been broken into and I’ve been violated. Dylan
was right and wrong all at the same time: a predator does have me in his sights and it does have something to do with my hair. It’s just not playing out exactly how he imagined. Violation and its first cousin, disgust, slither across me and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the need to shower with an entire bottle of disinfectant.

  I look up at my corner condo on the top floor. How in the hell did this creep get in? Maybe he went over the roof, took the fire escape down and shimmied over the ledge. I did it once when I was locked out. Scary, but not impossible. I’m going to have to call a locksmith and put extra security on the windows but I can’t do that tonight.

  My safety bubble has been slashed, air hissing out of formerly cushy tires. The keys, resting cool in my hand feel unfamiliar and that pisses me off. I’ve worked so hard to get to a place of balance, juggling my crazy mom, sister with the bad boyfriend picker, demanding job, and broken men. This feels like the last straw right at a time when I need to be strong because the biggest job of my life starts tomorrow. I clench the keys so hard the grooves dig into my skin and I don’t know whether to cry or scream.

  “You want to stay at my place tonight?” Victoria asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I do.”

  3

  Bright Lights

  BRIGHT LIGHTS

  I pitch some makeup, shoes, clothes, and jewelry in two suitcases, finally roll out of my place at 1 a.m. and crash for the rest of this lost night at Victoria’s place. We’re both wound tighter than a couple of two dollar watches so we stay up and talk until 3 a.m.

  “Can you tell me about what happened with your stalker thing?” I ask

  “Maybe tonight’s not the best night to share that.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “Thank you for everything.”

  “We’re cool, Kindergarten,” she says, calling me by my nickname. “Don’t let what happened tonight screw up getting your new job done. It’s a big one. I’m rooting for you.”

  “That’s super nice of you. Why are you rooting for me?”

  “You know. The changeover at Ma Maison management.”

  “There’s a changeover at Ma Maison management?”

  “That’s the rumor. No one’s guaranteed a job after the shakeup. Only the strong survive. Get some sleep while you can. Oh, and call me if you need anything while you’re in L.A. I’ve got friends there.” She shuffles down the hallway in her pajamas with cartoon cats jumping around on them.

  I catch a few hours of fitful sleep and pat on extra under eye concealer the next morning before heading out to Midway Airport. It looks like it might rain. Thick clouds bump across the sky.

  I wash my hands, stare into the tinny mirror in the airport bathroom when fear bubbles up in my stomach like bad chili mac and cheese. I start to panic. What if we hit turbulence? Oh super, this flight is going to be bumpy as shit.

  ‘Wait a second.’ Hope, my internal optimist reasons. ‘You’re not scared of flying. You’re picking up on someone else’s anxiety. You’re getting an empathic hit.’

  ‘Right.’ I concentrate and pinch the acupressure spot on the thick web of flesh between my thumb and forefinger, the sharp sensation grounding me.

  ‘You’re tired,’ Hope says. ‘Find the person you’re picking up on.’

  I don’t have far to look. The anxiety belongs to the woman standing at the sink next to me. She’s middle-aged, rubbing her hands over and over under the water, her fingers red, practically raw. My gut twists, confirming that she’s terrified to fly. It’s her fear that bubbles up inside me.

  ‘Not yours,’ Queasy says. ‘Handle it.’

  I count three, two, one and sink into my meditative level. The internal space that lies between conscious and subconscious. The place that nurtures dreams and hopes and intention.

  I can see this woman’s fear in my mind’s eye: it’s a small, dense, gray cloud. It’s been nagging her for a while, making her worry about money and relationships and what happens if the plane she’s in falls from the sky.

  Who will feed her fish if she’s dead?

  Will anyone find her last will and testament? It’s in the second drawer down on the left side of her desk.

  I tell her fear to shut up for a second and I visualize pushing that cloud out of me and releasing it back to the universe where it can be repurposed into positive energy. Ten seconds later that negative ball is gone. I toss a quick prayer to the heavens that God, or the Universe, helps this woman calm down before the plane takes off, or at very least the flight attendant comps her a stiff cocktail. Maybe I’ll buy her one.

  I head to my gate and grab an overdue coffee at a kiosk. Out of nowhere exhaustion slides like thick mud down the back of my skull and my neck until it hits the base of my spine. I move from wired to dog-tired in ten seconds and suddenly the floor looks awfully comfy.

  I might be running on empty, but unless I just got infected with Mono, I’m not this tired. Ugh. Another empathic hit. Another uncomfortable feeling that’s not mine. Apparently being violated has opened the floodgates to all sorts of crappy sensations to tromp about, picking at me like opportunistic thieves.

  My gaze is drawn to a seventy-something guy in a rumpled suit running a veiny hand through thinning hair. He’s staring at his laptop screen. There are dark circles under his eyes. This mudslide is his exhaustion. Oh man, someone needs to slap some sense into me because I need to get a handle on these uninvited empathic hits now.

  I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to handle every uncomfortable sensation slopping around me like dirty mop water. I need to bring my A game to Hollywood to handle Jake Keller’s needs. Get a grip, Evie. Get a fucking grip. I board the plane as soon as the attendant announces First Class boarding. I sit back in my seat, close my eyes, and visualize erecting an emotional wall within me – brick by brick. I will myself to keep others’ uninvited, debilitating feelings out.

  I’m perfunctorily nice to the guy next to me. He’s an accountant at a big 10 firm, super sweet, with no ring on the significant finger. He hands me his card with a glint of hope and attraction in his eyes and I’m tempted for a long moment.

  Wouldn’t this be a nice life? Married to Mr. Normal. Bearing normal children. Sunday dinners around a normal dining room table. Ballet and soccer and hockey and theatre for our delightfully normal kids. If only. Besides, Dylan McAlister’s been threatening to put a ring on my finger for eighteen months but I’ll believe it when I see it.

  I slip the card inside my wallet, thank him, then turn away and take most of the flight to nap, meditate, and rebuild my emotional reserves. I slip on earphones, listen to guided meditations, ColdPlay, and Bach. Four and a half hours later the plane’s landing gear rumbles, and the Captain announces our descent into L.A. I cross my fingers praying that I’ve got my shit together.

  Dear God:

  It’s me, Evie. Checking in. Don’t want to bug you. Don’t want to take too much time from all the more important things you’ve got going on. Children in cages. Journalists getting murdered. But I’m a little shaky from last night. Please help me do my best for this man. Please help me track down what broke him so he can heal. Thank you. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

  At Baggage Claim a female chauffeur swings a sign with my name above her head. She could be one of those twirlers on a street corner advertising a new strip mall. I’m grateful she swings that sign high and wide because in the capital of big money, bigger stars, and massive egos, I might not have seen her in the crush she is so tiny. I signal her with a wave.

  “Ms. Berlinger?”

  “Yes.” I walk toward her.

  “Awesome! How was your flight?”

  “Uneventful,” I say. “Thanks for asking.”

  “That’s the best kind,” she says. “My name’s Nikki. Follow me.” She wears a fitted black pant suit and is about five years younger than me. She reminds me of my sister Ruby before she hooked up with Meth Head Boyfriend. Sweet. Earnest.

  “I’ll grab y
our suitcases,” she says.

  “Nope. I’ll handle that.”

  “Let me,” she says. “The security guys tease me that I can’t keep up with them.”

  “How long has that bullshit been going on?”

  “Since I started the job a few months ago,” she says. “Don’t worry. It’s kind of like pledging to be a Little Sister at a frat house.”

  “What if pledging lasts longer than a few months?”

  “Then I’ll have to beat one of the assholes at pool, poker, or darts.”

  She’s smart. I like her. “If that doesn’t work?”

  “I’ll resort to my fierce uppercut,” She flexes her thin arm and grins, so much like my sister, it etches a tiny crack in my heart. “Or I’ll pitch a dart at their head.”

  I smile. “The two black bags with the raspberry stripes coming down the chute are mine.”

  “On it,” she says.

  Forty minutes later I’m sitting in the back of a town car checking messages as Nikki drives up L.A.’s Sunset Strip past the pop and glow of trendy shops and restaurants. I put my phone down and take in the magic of the City of Angels. There’s a store for just about anything and everything in L.A. Ceramics. Clothing. Electronics. Dating App Headquarters.

  “Traffic’s not as bad as I expected,” I say.