Not Quite Perfect
Page 79They both turned to the sound of feet running up the hall.
Kent stopped short, out of breath. “I saw the cops outside.”
Mary spread her hand as if she were on a game show showing the prizes. “Someone doesn’t like me.”
Kent hardly glanced at the damage before staring at her. “Are you hurt?”
“No. It happened last night. I just need to clean the mess, talk to the property manager about patching this up.” Somehow she needed to do all this and see every client she’d pushed off until that night. All on a few hours sleep.
“I’m just across the hall,” the secretary said.
“Thanks.” Mary pulled her hair back and continued to clean up the glass.
“What time are you off tonight?” Kent asked.
“Late, but I’m okay. I’m pretty sure I know who did this, and other than being a pain, they’re all bark.”
“This doesn’t look like bark to me.”
She was pissed but didn’t feel threatened. And it was time Kent understood she didn’t need him running to her rescue every day.
“I’m all right. Please, don’t feel obligated to watch over me. Glen will be here tomorrow. I’m sure we’ll come up with a solution to all this.”
The mention of Glen’s name placed a strangled smile on his face. She didn’t want to hurt the man, but he needed to get a hint.
“I see. I’m working late myself. I’ll keep an eye out until Glen gets here.”
He looked beyond her to the broken window. “Looks like it to me.” He didn’t give her more room to talk before twisting and walking away.
Glen woke to his phone ringing. “Hello?”
“I woke you up.”
“Mary?”
Even mostly asleep, hearing her voice was nirvana.
“I wanted to call before I left the office in hopes you’d still be awake. I’ll call in the morning.”
“Don’t you dare hang up.” He pushed himself upright and turned on the lamp in his bedroom. “I haven’t talked to you in forever.”
“Message tag isn’t the same,” she said. “My phone keeps cutting you off.”
“Your last message was sucked into cyberspace, too.”
“I’ve tried calling all day. Was your phone off the hook?”
“About that . . .”
For the next twenty minutes Glen listened, steamed, listened some more. Ten minutes into the full twenty he pulled himself out of bed and started to shove clothes into a bag.
“And you’re still at the office?” He’d caught that before she told him about Crazy Man, Psycho Lady, and the rock pitcher.
No, she didn’t . . . but he wasn’t going to say that.
“Are you on your way home?”
“I’ll leave when I hang up. I feel like I could sleep for a week. Don’t plan any surprises. I’d just as well watch movies and eat ice cream in my pajamas all weekend.”
He was pleased she didn’t suggest he not come.
“Do me a favor. Call Walt and tell him you’re on your way so he can keep an eye out.”
“You of all people should know they left today. They put off the family as long as they could.”
Mary kept talking, but Glen tuned out. He’d forgotten about Walt and Dakota’s trip.
They were gone, and he was four thousand miles away. And Mary had some psycho . . . maybe more than one crazy . . . fucking with her.
“Call me when you walk in your door and set your alarm. I’ll call you when I’m at the door so you can let me in.”
“You don’t have to rush here, Glen. I’m going home and burying my head in a pillow for twelve hours.”
“And when you wake up, I’ll be there making you breakfast.”
“You don’t cook.”
“I can pour cereal.”
He flipped on lights in his bathroom and grabbed the overnight bag he had yet to unpack from London. “You probably will be fine, but I won’t sleep knowing there is a possibility that you’re not. Do you have the gun yet?”
“I pick it up on Monday.”
He would much rather know she had it now, but at least the gun would give him some peace of mind after Monday. “I’m on my way. No use arguing about it.”
“Fine! I don’t have the energy to argue anyway. Me and my monkey are going to sleep like a rock. So knock hard when you get here.”
He liked the thought of her curled up to his stuffed toy. “By the way . . . on your message you said something about flowers and soup.”
“I did. They were thoughtful, thank you.”
“Mary, I didn’t send you flowers and I don’t know of anyone who delivers soup.”
She hesitated. “What about the flowers last week?”
The hair on his nape went to full attention. “The only flowers I’ve given you were on our first date. Did the card say they came from me?”
“There wasn’t a card. There wasn’t a card from the soup either.”
He didn’t like this . . . didn’t like any of it. Who was sending Mary gifts? “Who knew you were sick?”
“About every client I have. I either rescheduled their appointment, telling them I was ill, or they came in and noticed themselves. None of them know where I live. It isn’t like I give out my personal address.”