Misconduct

“It’s almost Halloween,” I told her, looking around and seeing the place empty. “I thought you’d be busier.”

“It goes in spells,” she explained. “Mardi Gras is the really busy time.”

Yeah, I could imagine. I couldn’t believe it was only about four months until the next carnival season began.

Nearly a year since the first time I’d met Tyler.

And – I let my eyes drop for a moment as I walked around the shop – it had been more than a week since the last time I’d talked to him.

I’d seen him – once.

He’d picked up Christian last Monday from school, and even though I wasn’t sure, because I’d refused to look for him, he was most likely there every day this week to get his son.

I’d smiled at the parents, wished the students a good afternoon every day when they left, and returned to my classroom, closing my door and blaring Bob Marley as I worked late and didn’t think of him.

Or tried not to think of him.

But then I’d see the bra in my drawer that no longer had matching panties and remember that they were left in an alley in the Quarter. Or I’d wake up hot, the sheets chafing my naked skin, and let myself fall apart, wishing my hands were his.

He was right, though. What we were doing was careless and selfish.

I turned back to the clerk. “Where are your metal masks again?” I asked.

She pointed behind me. “Through there on the left wall.”

I saw the French doors in the middle of the room and gave her a small smile. “Thank you.”

Walking into the next room, I gazed at the walls, all adorned with masks, much like the first room, and went straight for the small selection of metal masks they carried. Some looked very much like the one I had purchased here last winter, but that was another perk of this place. No two masks were alike.

I picked up an ornate gold one, shining with crystals built into the center part that sat in the forehead. Along the sides, curling designs traveled up both temples, and exotic eyes gave it an erotic look, like a mixture of sex and mystery.

A smile I actually felt crept out for the first time in a week.

I loved the black one I’d worn all those months ago. I didn’t know where I would wear this one, but I was buying it.

I picked out a mask for my brother as well, since he had mentioned he had a Halloween ball to attend for his new internship at Greystone Bridgerton, letting her wrap both up and bag them before heading back up to Canal to catch a streetcar.

It was after three in the afternoon, and even though I hadn’t accomplished anything useful today, I’d promised Jack I’d make him dinner.

The only things he cooked were Hot Pockets and scrambled eggs.

Carrying my bag, I walked under the fragrant lilac tree in my quiet neighborhood and crossed the street to my apartment.

But as I jogged up the steps to the porch, I slowed, seeing my front door open.

What the…?

Fear attacked me, slicing across my chest like a giant claw, taking everything in its grasp, and I instantly backed up, stepping down the stairs.

But I locked the door.

I remembered locking it, because a neighbor had greeted me, and I’d turned around to say hello before clicking the lock and jiggling the door handle to make sure it was secure.

I shook my head. No. I am not going through this again.

I charged up to the door, pushing it open with my hand.

“Who’s here?” I shot out, trying to keep the shakiness from my voice.

Air rushed in and out of my lungs as I quickly scanned the room, looking for any movement. The interior was dark. I’d turned off all the lights before I’d left, but the day’s last light was coming through the windows.

“Who’s here?” I shouted again, dropping the bag to my feet. “Come out right now!” I dared.

The cabinets, the window, the shower curtain… They weren’t my imagination or lapses in concentration.

Someone had been coming into my house.

I forced down the lump in my throat and inched into the foyer, searching the area for anything out of place.

And then I widened my eyes, seeing the pile of wreckage in the center of the living room.

I rushed for the debris and fell to the floor, the skin of my knees burning on the area rug.

“No,” I gasped.

Someone had broken into my house, and they’d known right where to go.

My shoulders shook as I cried silently.

My treasure box – the one Jack worried about – lay shattered on the floor, its contents scattered about and ripped to pieces.

I squeezed the scraps of papers in my hands, feeling the agony that I’d felt all those years ago when I’d locked them inside the box.

Chase.

All of his letters. His threats. Everything he’d sent me after my parents fired him as my coach. Everything they’d hidden from me.

After they died, I’d found the file in their home office with his “love” letters to me. From the dates, he’d been mailing them since he was fired.

I’d found them and read them, and my instant reaction was to want to self-destruct. They made my skin crawl and made me hate my parents for never pressing charges. They’d confiscated my phone not long after the stalking began, and also cut off my e-mail, so these letters were the only proof of what he was doing. Hard proof to give to the police. Why keep this from me instead of using it to protect me?

How could they have read these letters – some of them disgusting and perverted – and not done anything?

And then I remembered that they were dead because of me – because of what I’d done that night – and I didn’t want to be rid of the evidence.