Two months worth of notes, letters, the dead roses, the gifts, phone records, all of it -- laid out on my desk in the den. And still, no connecting theme to anyone I knew, anyone I'd ever met, anyone at all.
The handwriting was familiar -- or was it? Did I just wish it were familiar?
The note paper was a popular brand that was available at any stationary store.
The ink -- a cheap ballpoint.
The postmark-- from LA usually, one from New York, one from San Francisco... the Los Angeles postmarks all from Santa Monica.
The card on the dead flowers was from a florist in Hollywood. I checked the day they came in, "no, I no remember the man..." said the florist.
The stamps -- basic.
Nothing, and I was getting very tired. I looked at my wristwatch, it was past midnight. The house was quiet, Drew was out... somewhere -- I wouldn't let myself think where he might have been, that was too intense a consideration.
Ahghghghg! Frustrated, I decided to go for a walk.
Running.
I was running and running, for over a mile.
I'd gotten far from the house, walking, letting my mind relax in the hope that a new idea I hadn't considered would enter my brain.
And it did -- suddenly, something struck a familiar chord with me. Something about every note from the stalker reminded me of something, of another note I had received back in January.
And I began to run -- faster than I remember running in a very long time.
I tore into the house, the front door left open behind me.
I got to the den, opened the door and looked at the notes I'd left on my desk.
I got the key to a locked drawer in my desk, opened the drawer and began to search for the note. I fell into a panic and slowed down, forcing myself to be calm.
Piece after piece, I searched. Old articles on sports medicine, an order form for a new Porn Magazine, some old letters to my parents I'd never seen -- from when I was trying to come out to them... and then I found it.
Bound with several other notes.
I found the one I was looking for, postmarked January 5th -- from the post office in Santa Monica.
I opened it and I felt relieved and terrified at once -- there it was, the pattern. The repetition that wa