To Alice, Love John

The box arrived early Friday morning before work, cheerful ding of her doorbell alerting her to the arrival. And while such deliveries weren’t unheard of, Alice paused at the sight of the one square foot cube of cardboard that had her heart suddenly racing.

She knew what today was, had been dreading the possibility. Thought maybe she’d be spared. But after two long years, her respite was over.

She scuttled inside with the deceptively heavy thing in hand, depositing it on her small kitchen table just past the door, standing back from it, wide and terrified eyes never leaving its seemingly innocuous presence as she shakily dialed work.

Just her luck, Lucy answered, but there was no way around it. “I’m sick,” Alice blurted to the nosiest cashier at the grocery.

“Sweetie, that’s just awful,” Lucy drawled. “Want me to head over with soup? They have chicken in the deli.”

“No,” Alice snapped, catching herself, breathless, now shaking so badly she could barely hold her phone. “Thank you. I’m going back to bed.” And hung up. She’d have to apologize profusely and publicly debase herself to make it up to Lucy. That was, if she stayed. Which was feeling more and more unlikely.

She needed to pack right now, in fact. Get out of town, cross at least three state lines. And never mind the box. Except it was a siren song, that cube of corrugated cardboard without a return label. Even though Alice knew exactly what she’d find within. Or, at least, had an excellent idea.

Because this wasn’t her first box, was it? No, they started coming after she left John and his controlling narcissism and gaslighting abuse, the physical and mental torture that she endured for almost twenty years before spiking his whiskey and taking the small cache of money she’d managed to squirrel away. To start fresh, a new life, safe and free at last.

It took six months for the first box to show up on her porch and the contents had her instantly slipping into the night and moving on from the fresh start she’d been sure was permanent. She’d even begun dating, though nothing serious.

The second box came exactly a year later. The delay gave her a sense of hope, just enough time to plant roots and destroy her confidence all with one single square delivery. Because the day of its arrival?

A day she'd dread for the rest of her life.

This was the sixth box, and despite knowing what to expect, she also knew she’d be opening it. The label was addressed to Dorothy Munroe, her current alias, but he’d added his trademark, To Alice, Love John written in large, scrawling letters with a crooked heart in place of the dot of the “I”. She always told herself it wasn’t worth looking inside, not when she knew the contents by heart. For some reason, the compulsion to witness the depths of just how far John would go to torture her had as much power over her now as he himself had back then.

Still did, didn’t he? Despite everything. Despite the contents of each box and what they meant.

She shuddered, running to her bedroom, packing essentials into the already prepared bag under her bed. Alice was always ready now, even though there were times like this one she made it a couple of years between deliveries. How he found her, she had no idea. What means he used to track her was a mystery. All she knew was every single box he sent her was meant to maximize trauma while making her bolt like a hunted rabbit.

One of these days, maybe she’d stop running. And maybe one of these days he’d give up on her. Or finally come for her and she'd have her own box then, wouldn't she? Until then, she had no choice. At least she wouldn’t have to apologize to Lucy.

Someone rang the doorbell and she paused, head up, eyes wide, breath caught her fight/flight/freeze instinct roared to life, her entire being trapped and frozen by the intrusion. Was this the moment? Had he come for her at last? Dread pulsed like poison through her as she dropped her bag and reached for the door handle, pulling it open.

The young officer on the other side nodded pleasantly while Alice felt her head explode in terror. The box. He was here for the box, and this was the end.

“Sorry to trouble you, ma’am,” the young man said, “but we received an anonymous call that someone at this address was in distress.” He peeked over her shoulder, smiling kindly. “Are you alone?”

“Yes, officer,” Alice blurted. “Just me. I’m fine.” Who had called? Her nosy neighbor next door? Or John? It didn't matter now. All that mattered was getting rid of the cop and getting out of town.

The officer hesitated, smile fading a little. “Are you sure?”

She wiped sweat from her upper lip and brow, offering a tremulous smile of her own. “The flu,” she said. “I’m not feeling well is all.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding, seeming to relax. “My wife just had it. Terrible one this year.” Another pause stretched between them, so long Alice almost whimpered in the need for him to go as what felt like a spotlight heated her back glaring at the box on the table. Please, let him just go.

“Well, I’ll be off then, Ms…?”

It took her a moment to process his request, and when she answered it was hasty again, hopefully explained away by her supposed illness. “Munroe,” she said. “Dorothy Munroe.” For about ten more minutes, that was. No matter how many times she changed her name, she clung to who she really was.

“Take care of yourself,” he said. Turned away, even as she moved to close the door, rush of relief washing over her. When he paused again, frown forming, her guts knotted again because he wasn’t leaving just yet.

“That box,” he said softly, hand reaching for his weapon holstered at his waist. “Ms. Munroe, why is that box bleeding?”

Alice stammered, world closing in on her while the officer shouldered through the door, past her. She spun, staring in horror as he prodded it with his gun.

She hated to do it. It wasn’t his fault, after all. But this was life or death and she'd seen her fair share. The kitchen knife was already on the counter and as he bent, she could see his jugular pulsing. One step and one swipe were all it took.

He turned to her with bulging eyes when she kicked the door shut behind him, watching him collapse to the floor, clutching the blood pumping from his neck, some of it splattering on the box and mixing with the contents leaking from inside. It didn’t take him long to die, but long enough for the brief breakfast of coffee and toast to threaten a revival.

Death was John's expertise, not hers, but she'd learned enough from him to make it count.

When the young cop was done, a giant pool soaked the tiles around him, staring eyes locked on the ceiling, mouth open wide in astonished disappointment. Alice retrieved the box, slitting the sealing tape with the same knife that killed the officer, red line staining the clear packaging, dripping down on the contents. John had done a terrible job of packing this time, not even bothering to wrap the head in bubble wrap, just a wad of paper towel over some cling wrap lining the bottom. It had obviously shifted during transit, just in time to reveal her to the officer.

“This is all your fault,” she whispered to her husband before sighing over the pretty girl’s face now distorted by death, milky eyes empty and staring. She would have been beautiful. A brunette, John's favorite. Alice always preferred the blondes, but it wasn't like he ever gave her a choice in the matter.

She jerked her gaze upward to the inside flap of the box and the expected message written there in the same broad, messy hand.

Happy anniversary, darling, John wrote. Enjoy your present.

Alice sagged a moment. She really should just turn him in, but her hands weren't exactly clean. And, as they said, once a serial killer’s wife…

She didn’t look back when she slammed the door.