Page 68 of Made for You

Damn. Apparently there are people named Deborah Reeves all over Indiana. But none in Eauverte. Of course, that Walmart is a hub for any number of small surrounding towns.

I close my eyes and let my phone drop to my lap. Where? Where have I seen her name? I can see it in my mind. In...black pen? And spider-thin script.

I’m out of my chair and in the master closet within seconds.

In the corner, two huge plastic bins are marked JULIA and JOSH. They contain nearly a year’s worth of mail. I muscle them out into my bedroom.

Unclasping the lid from my bin first, I turn it on its side and dump everything out—letters and cards and photos and promo material from businesses. Even some small gifts. Personalized lip balm. Fan art of the proposal. An engraved copper pendant.

I remember how mad Josh was when I didn’t let him throw all this stuff away. It was after that first death threat.

“We should keep these just in case,” I said, clutching the letter where a man described wanting to carve out my eyes so I couldn’t watch him as he fucked me.

“This is trash,” Josh argued, angry. So angry. Poor Josh. If being on The Proposal was some version of paradise for him, those first couple months in this house were hell.

“If something happens, this is evidence,” I explained. “I’ll get some bins. You don’t even have to read anything.”

I was calm about it at the time. Rational. Not actually thinking anything bad would happen. Keeping all this was merely an insurance policy, future security that we’d never need to draw on, against that one-in-a-million chance.

Well, here we are.

It takes me a long time to sort through my stuff, but a fever of energy fuels me. By the time I’m done, with no sign of anything from Deborah Reeves, I’m hungry. I have to pump. I have to pee. But I don’t stop. I dump out Josh’s bin.

The hate mail comes in more flavors than ice cream. Interestingly, Josh has more than me.

You’re going to burn for fornicating with a Bot.

Our country is going straight to hell because of people like you!

Most of this drivel bears no return address, though hilariously, some does. Seeing Josh’s name written over and over is painful. Josh is dead, I realize again.

The last time I really sobbed about Josh was well before his disappearance. He was mad at me. It was over something silly. It always was. I’d forgotten to tell him I had dinner plans—a video chat with Cam and some of the other Proposal girls—but Josh had made a surprise reservation for us at an Italian place, which he had to cancel. The memory is a little fuzzy, as all memories are, but the emotions are crystal clear. An overwhelming sense of the fragility of us. How easily we could hurt each other. How love isn’t just the fuzzy stuff, but an almost violent vulnerability. An openness to pain, the thing we hate most, in order to get love, the thing we need most. Ironic, I can’t help but think. Or paradoxical. And what if you keep getting hurt? Can you stay open forever? Or does some overpowering instinct force you to retreat, close, protect—and in turn, cut yourself off from love? If reality is made by choosing, what reality were we making in those awful weeks and months as we chipped away at each other with our words, with our silences, with our fears closing in until our love was a scared little animal cowering in the corner?

I don’t know how much time I spend sitting there, frozen with my hands around one of the letters, but finally, I wake back up. I still can’t cry, but I do have to laugh. Because right here, in front of my left knee, is a greeting card–sized envelope addressed to Josh LaSala in a spidery black script. The return address: Deborah Reeves.

It’s still sealed, so I rip in, then pull out a Hallmark greeting card with an Easter bunny on the front. Inside, the thin scrawl covers one side.

Dear Josh,

I’ve called and called, but I think you have blocked my number.

You may not remember me, but your mother and I used to be best friends. We were pregnant at the same time. I made you a baby blanket with embroidered suns and clouds. You were the cutest baby and we all adored you.

I didn’t want you to marry Julia, but you did. I was afraid you might because I know how you like redheads, which is why I tried to get her out of the way.

You have made a terrible mistake! Your life is in danger!!! You need to leave her immediately, and don’t look back! With your mother being sick, it is my responsibility to look out for you, now more than ever!!!

Love,

Deb

I feel so strange reading this. I flip back and forth between the perky, rosy-cheeked Easter bunny and the dark interior. Right after the attack, everyone decided that this woman was an unhinged fan, and despite my reservations, I went along with it. Seeing her in Walmart two nights ago debunked that once and for all. And now it turns out she knew Josh? Did Josh recognize her back then?

I read the note a second time. It’s protective. Fierce. Like a mother would be, even though she’s not his mother. And the thing she wanted to protect him from? Me.

Obviously her ideas about Synths are ignorant, misguided. But it’s hard to imagine that someone who wanted to keep Josh safe would also be his killer.

On the other hand, there’s no question that she’s capable of violence. I remember how flat she looked when she bashed my head onto the patio stone in the Proposal mansion. Like she had no emotion. No conscience to stop her.