The name doesn’t mean anything to me, so I drop the note on the counter, strip away the last of the bubble wrap, and hold the jar up to the light coming in through the kitchen window.
When I do, I almost drop it.
The jar is half-filled with a thick amber liquid that glows gold in the sunlight. My severed finger is floating inside, weighed down by the wedding ring just beneath the knuckle.
At first, my mind doesn’t register what I’m seeing.
My finger looks shrunken, fake. The severed end is a shred of torn flesh that drifts back and forth in the dark liquid like pale seaweed surrounding a jagged nub of bone.
I stare at it for a long time, feeling my hand pulse under the bandage. When I finally set the jar on the counter and step away, all I can think is that I got lucky.
I got my ring back.
– 4 -
Diane isn’t taking this very well, so after I hang up with the police, I sit next to her on the couch and put my hand on her leg.
She looks at me. “What did they say?”
“They’re sending someone.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Now, I guess.”
Diane turns toward the window and stares out at the empty street, silent.
I want to tell her everything will be okay, but I can’t do it. I can’t pretend that what happened to me that night in the parking lot was a random act, not anymore. I’m being targeted, and we both know it. I owe her more than false comfort.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said in the hospital,” I say. “About my dad and the people he knew.”
Diane looks at me.
“I’ll give the cops a couple names. Maybe they can come up with some answers.” I pause. “I don’t want you to worry. I’m going to find out who’s doing this.”