“Something the matter?” I smile, glance at the bunches of bananas, and pluck a pink and white disc from the pile. “Oops. Lost another nail.”

  The woman manages a tight-lipped smile and walks away. Before the last few days, an interaction like that would have left me feeling hurt and sad. Insecure. Instead, I felt powerful. My very existence clearly disgusted the woman, just like I had disgusted George and my cab drivers. I liked it. They all think I’m disgusting for living the way I do anyway. They may as well get the full, visceral experience of me.

  I load my shopping cart with bagged salads, fresh-cut fruit, yogurt, skim milk, lean meats, and sparkling artesian water. Low-carb bread and high-protein shakes. I also grab containers of pre-made green gelatin snack packs for my client’s photo shoot. I’m determined to feel good again, inside and out, no matter what it takes. I have to keep working, and I have to try to take better care of myself. I can be a healthier, stronger person—the person I used to be—if I just stop acting like a victim or a doormat all the time. I know I can.

  My cashier is a fresh-scrubbed teenager with a blonde cheerleader ponytail. She greets me with an upbeat, customer service greeting and smile, but quickly changes her tune as she meets my bloodshot gaze. I hunch over the conveyor belt and slowly unload the groceries from my cart, coughing little red-tinged sprays of spittle onto my hand as I work. When she’s finished ringing me up, the cashier regards me with terror as I hand her the last of the money from George. I hiss farewell to her and leave the grocery store with less than forty dollars and a trunk full of aspirational groceries that will surely change my life.

  When I return home, my parking lot is cloaked in night. I warily eye the dumpster, half expecting my bug-eyed stalker to be looming behind a pile of trash bags, ready to strike at me again. As I lug the first bag of groceries upstairs, it becomes clear I woefully overestimated my energy levels. I go back down for the rest and am barely able to move by the time I finish putting my groceries away.

  I make myself a cup of tea and a bowl of yogurt with nuts, berries, and granola and retreat to my bedroom. Even though I cleaned the day before, the room still stinks like dirty socks or funky, unwashed gym clothes. I click on the television, and Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie appear on the screen doing their dumb heiress act. I witness them prance around the countryside in skimpy pink outfits as I eat my yogurt and zone out.

  Tomorrow. I just have to get through tomorrow, and then on Monday, I will go see George and collect the rest of the money he promised me. I’ll figure out the rest after that. Tomorrow, I’ll go see my mother and have her help me find a doctor to figure out what’s going on with my body. And Elaine. I would make things right with Elaine, too. It was the least she deserved.

  I lay back in bed and let my eyes glaze over, hypnotized by the TV glow. I fall asleep to the lullaby of a laugh track, content in my sweaty bed sheet cocoon, but my bladder wakes me in the middle of the night. My hair is matted to the back of my neck in a sweaty nest, and my joints scream with a hot, pulsing pain. I relieve myself in the bathroom, and a hot stream of horrible-smelling urine hits the bowl. I barely find the strength to hobble to the kitchen and chase four ibuprofen with a liter of water.

  I’m fully awake and edgy when I return to my bedroom. I’m behind on my work but in no state to answer emails or entertain clients. It’s a mistake to open my laptop, but I do it anyway. My unanswered emails stare back at me, and I remember the photos that I had promised to my foot fetish clients. Fuck. I return to the kitchen and retrieve a large rectangular tub from under the sink, as well as the green gelatin cups from the fridge. Might as well get this over with.

  Back in my bedroom, I rip open the lids on the plastic containers and turn the cartons upside down into a big plastic vat. The gelatin makes a slippery suction noise before releasing from its encasement and plopping into the tub with a splat. I repeat this until all of the gelatin cups are empty and the tub is full of wobbling lime goo. Then I turn on my digital camera, stick my feet in the tub of cold green jelly, and fire away.

  SNAP.

  SNAP.

  SNAP.

  I take about a dozen photos of my feet and toes squished into the gelatinous tub before I review my work. I can’t say that I understand the draw of this particular thing, but I try not to judge my clients when it comes to kink. I don’t get why gelatin and feet are sexual, but this type of thing isn’t hurting anyone, and at the end of the day, I’m just happy to be paid. I review the shots I took and admit they turned out okay, except, upon further inspection, something seems off. I zoom in on a photo of my left foot and gasp. My eyes dart to the tub of quivering jelly, and a sick feeling invades my gut.

  No. Nononononono.

  I plunge my hands into the cold muck and pull out a single pinky toe.

  Chapter Ten

  The sun is rising as I bundle up in my coat and fly down the stairs in a flurry of fur and panic. My pinky toe is in my pocket, wrapped in a plastic baggie and nestled on a bed of ice. I don’t have much hope for it being reattached. The little nub is gray and looks like it probably lost its blood supply long ago. I’ve tried to ignore my failing health or shrug off what has been happening as no big deal for too long. I can’t go to a walk-in clinic or wait for my mother to help me find a specialist. The emergency room is the only sane solution now.

  Dawn rays of light assault my eyes as I drive out of the apartment complex parking lot toward the ER. I slip my sunglasses on again, but they barely do anything to tone down the glare. My thoughts are all over the place as I swerve in and out of traffic like a demented Cruella de Vil. What kind of virus or disease could I possibly have that would cause my toe to fall off? Diabetes? Not likely. Maybe it’s leprosy? The thought makes my stomach drop. What if I got infected somehow by that weird woman who assaulted me? Did she give me fucking leprosy?

  I make it all the way to the emergency room parking lot before my chest caves in and a panic attack sets in. I grip the steering wheel and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to ground myself again. When I was younger, right before my parents divorced, I would often have panic attacks that left me frozen, terrified, and stuck inside myself. My mother would sit with me and teach me how to focus on my breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. I forget everything she taught me as I clench the wheel, panting, breathing in and out in short, sharp breaths.

  After a few minutes, my pulse and heart rate slow. I realize that I haven’t even looked at the wound site where my toe detached. The truth is that I’m too scared to look. But I want to know what I’m up against before I walk through those emergency room doors.

  I pull my left knee up to my chest and slip out of the ballet flats I put on before I left the apartment, followed by the ankle sock. I don’t feel any pain at the sight of the injury, though I attribute that fact to adrenaline doing its job. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and peek down at the place where my pinky toe used to be and…

  Nothing.

  Nada. Just smooth, closed-up skin and an empty place where a digit used to be. I blink and run my fingertips along the unmarked skin and let out a blast of laughter.

  What the fuck is going on?

  Just to be sure, I pull the pinky toe bag from my pocket and examine the contents inside. Tears well up, and a stray droplet falls down my cheek as I realize nothing will ever be the same again. Well, at least I can cry again. Even if I go inside the hospital, the doctors probably can’t sew my toe back on. It was already gray and rotten-looking when I pulled it from the vat of gelatin, so who knows how long it had been like that. Plus, the way that the closed-off skin on my foot looks makes it seem like the wound healed ages ago. The emergency room staff would just think I was nuts and send me home with a huge hospital bill. Doctors can’t help me, and I don’t know how to help myself. I wipe the tears from my eyes, stick the toe baggie back in my pocket, and throw my car in reverse.

  On the way home, I pass by Bay Vistas Condominium. A wave of anger floods over me as I mull over the events of the last few days and my ruined foot. Even if I wanted to continue the sugar baby/foot fetish business, it would be much harder with only nine toes. Sure, there were plenty of niche buyers out there who would be into that sort of thing, but I don’t want to be niche. I want my fucking toe.

  I was doing fine until that weird fucking woman came into my life, just fine. Healthy as a horse! I must have contracted some strange, unknown virus from her or something; it’s the only logical answer. If that’s the case, going to the emergency room won’t be enough anyway. I need answers. I need vengeance. I need to make that bitch pay.

  My tires screech against the asphalt as I do a U-turn and head back toward Bay Vista Condominiums. I don’t know which building that horrible woman lives in, but I know that she has a shitty little dog. And like all shitty little dogs, hers probably has to pee a thousand times a day. That’s not fair. It’s probably a nice little dog who just has a terrible owner. The dog didn’t deserve my anger. But still! All I have to do is wait until she takes the dog out for its morning walk, and then I can follow her and find out which condo is hers.

  I pull into Bay Vista and park in my usual visitors’ spot, sink down low in my seat, and angle the rearview mirror to get a good look at the sidewalk. She passed by me with her little dog in this very same spot before, so there was no reason to believe she wouldn’t walk by again. I shudder remembering her sneer at me on that first day. It was the same look of revulsion she had for me in the glow of my headlights in the mall parking. The same look on her shadowy face behind the dumpster. The face of disgust and disease and rot.

  Bad thoughts invade my mind as I wait for my stalker to emerge from whatever hellhole she crawls out of. What if I lose more than a few fingernails and some hair and a toe? What if my ears fall off next, or my nose? What if this was just the beginning of something far worse? Before I can ponder too many other horrible possibilities or terrible fates, a flurry of fur and hair catches my attention.

  It’s her.

  The woman stands at the outskirts of the condominium property with a leash in one hand and a smoldering cigarette in the other. In the early dawn light, she doesn’t look as terrifying as before. In fact, she looks…better. Younger. If it weren’t for the coat, sunglasses, and Yorkie on the other end of the leash, I would almost doubt it was her.

  The little dog does its business, and I hold still in my hiding position until the woman walks away. When she’s just about to turn the corner, I open my car door and walk at a brisk pace to follow behind her. Despite missing one toe and feeling completely decrepit, I’m surprisingly fast on my feet. I hide around the corner of the main condo building and watch as she enters the Bay Vista Condominiums vestibule. Through the tinted glass windows, I watch her punch the number nine on the elevator panel.

  There’s a card key entry to get into the vestibule, but I don’t have to wait long for someone else to walk through the door. A well-to-do middle-aged couple takes their time exiting the building, giving me the perfect opportunity to slip in behind them. My heart jackhammers in my ears as I push the number nine and step into the empty elevator.

  As the elevator goes up, up, up, it occurs to me that I don’t know which condo belongs to the woman, only that she rode up to the ninth floor. When the elevator doors open, I don’t have to do much guessing. The ninth floor is the top floor and, by default, has the only condo on the floor—the penthouse. This lady must be loaded.

  I tread as softly as I can across the carpet toward a set of white French double doors marked 901. The muffled sound of a yipping Yorkie greets me through the closed doors, and panic sets in again. I came here to confront this woman, but I don’t really have a plan. I’m not a violent person, so I don’t want to hurt her. I just want to get some answers, and probably to cuss at her. But before I can chicken out and turn around, one of the French doors swings open wide, and I’m staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

  I don’t breathe, don’t speak, don’t move a muscle as the woman lowers her weapon. She frowns, places her oversized sunglasses on top of her forehead, and stares me down with a pair of deep violet eyes.

  “Oh, it’s you.” She sighs and picks up her little dog. “Well, don’t just stand there. You might as well come in.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “I suppose you’re here for answers or revenge or some other such nonsense,” she says, closing the door behind me. “Can I get you a coffee? Water? Tea?”

  I blink and let my eyes adjust in the poorly lit dungeon of a condo. My nose twitches as the scent of dog and something familiar hits my nostrils. Dust. Dirty laundry. Decay. I shouldn’t be here. Every instinct in my body says to run as far away as possible from this woman. Before I give myself a chance to turn around and escape, I remember why I bothered to find her in the first place. I needed answers, and I was going to get them.

  “I don’t need a drink. I need to know what you did to me.”

  I stand in the doorway, not yet ready to venture further. The woman places her little dog on the floor, sighs, and walks toward the kitchen.

  “Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” she says. “Come this way.”

  Her heels click against the polished marble floor, and she disappears around the corner. The little dog looks up at me before trailing behind its mistress. After a moment's deliberation, I follow her toward the kitchen with my fists still clenched.

  Despite the generous, open floor plan and floor-to-ceiling windows, the space is cave-like and not at all decorated like a luxury beachfront property. Heavy cranberry colored velvet drapery covers every single window, and all of the shades are drawn, blocking out the light. Instead of coastal rattan furniture in light colors and breezy fabrics, the decor is heavy and dark. The credenza in the entryway is crafted of dark mahogany wood, intricately carved and enormous, with a dining room set to match. The still life paintings, landscapes, and portraits on the wall are all old-fashioned with elaborate gilded frames, scenes of proud lords and ladies, and their stately countryside homes. This lady didn’t get the memo that Florida condos were supposed to be filled with seashells and tropical motifs. This place looks more like an 18th-century European manor.

  I round the corner to the kitchen, which is also similarly old-fashioned looking, all wood and cast iron and dark marble. The woman stands next to a monstrous-looking black wrought iron range that certainly didn’t come standard in the apartment. The oven seems big enough to cook a whole person in, and the range top is evil and Gothic-looking with twisting, heavy black wrought iron. She pours a cup of dark liquid from a silver teapot and turns to me without smiling.

  “I already made coffee,” the woman says, shoving a cup in my hand. “You should have some. Looks like you need it.”

  “Your house is weird.” I sniff the cup. “How do I know it isn’t poisoned?”

  “Muh huh, mwa ha HA HA!” A ridiculous laugh bursts from the woman’s lips.

  I frown at her and put the cup on the marble slab counter.

  “Oh, honey, if I wanted you dead, you already would be,” she says. “Go ahead. Drink your coffee. It’s good shit, single-sourced. Not that crap from the grocery store.”

  She takes a sip of her coffee, smacks her lips, and makes an ahhhh sound of satisfaction. “You want to know why I’ve been following you, right?”

  “Well, for starters, yeah,” I say. “Did you do something to me?”

  “Yes and no,” she says. “I was following you because you have potential.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I see girls like you all the time,” she says. “Young. Pretty. And too stupid to know their own worth.”

  “Listen, lady, if I did something to piss you off or whatever, then I’m sorry.” I pull the baggie from my pocket and wave it in the air. “But my fucking toe fell off this morning, and I’m kind of freaked out. So tell me what you did to me, or…or I’ll call the cops!”

  The woman eyes the bag, tsks, and shakes her head. “Well, that is a shame.”

  “It’s not a shame, it’s my life! Now tell me what the fuck is going on!”

  The woman sighs and leans against her counter. She looks so small and frail against the monstrous kitchen appliance. I’m so furious I could choke her—wrap my fingers around her pale, slim neck, and squeeze until her stupid purple eyeballs burst out of the socket like those squishy toys you get at the arcade. But I don’t have the energy, and I’m on her turf, and besides, she has information I need. This awful woman has the upper hand, and I hate it.

  “Before our interaction, you were perfectly happy wasting your talents in favor of spending time with awful men who didn’t properly value you. True?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve been following you for a while,” she says. “You’re a good artist, by the way. A terrible thief, but a good artist. You should really keep that up, the painting.”

  “Okay, so you’re a weirdo stalker. Why is my life and what I do any of your business?”

  “Because you’re squandering your existence away. Your beautiful life energy. Well, I certainly wasn’t going to let it go to waste.”

  “I’m not wasting my life,” I say, insulted. “I have ambitions. I have goals. It’s hard to make it out there in the world, you know?”

  “You just let those men debase you, over and over again…”

  “But that was my choice,” I say. “And they didn’t debase me. My clients were never the ones who hurt me. They always treated me well. It was…”

  “It was what?”

  “Well, you supposedly stalked me and know everything about my life,” I say. “Don’t you know?”

  “I do,” she says. “But I want to hear you say it.”

  I blink and lick my lips. My mouth is made of cotton, and I don’t want to say his name, but I say it anyway. “Leo.”