December 11
For the first time since she began working at Hobson and Rowe, Rosalind called in sick. Sara wasn't surprised. She only hoped that whatever her boss had wasn't contagious. The poor secretary needn't have feared, for Rosalind wasn't really ill.
Minutes after placing the call to her office, the editor phoned the police.
"Has he made any threats against you?" the officer inquired after she explained about her secret admirer.
"No, he hasn't."
"Have you seen him following you?"
"No, but I don't know what he looks like. Still, how else could he have known about the scarf and my favorite perfume?"
"Miss Lloyd, I'm afraid there's nothing we can do. There's no law prohibiting a man from giving a woman presents. Now, if the situation changes and he tries to frighten or harm you, call us back and we'll set him straight."
How can the police set him straight when I don't know who he is?
She had only one clue to her stalker's identity: the Advent calendar.
Rosalind walked into her living room and, with a trembling hand, opened the drawer for December 11. Inside was a fortune cookie. She cracked it open and read the fortune: Good things come to those who wait.
"I'm sick of this stupid game!" she screamed, throwing the cookie across the room in a fit of temper. "Why don't you tell me who the hell you are already?"
Her anger grew. Even if the man looked like Brad Pitt, she was certain that, given all the worry and aggravation he was putting her through, she would hate him on sight.
