Free Boyfriend from Hell by Avery Corman

five years. He’ll get the idea.”
    “If he’s involved,” Gomez responded. “Could be somebody else.”
    “Likelihood is it’s one of his screwballs. He can get the word out that he doesn’t want her harassed. Maybe this’ll just go away.”
    Everybody with whom Ronnie had professional contact during the course of a day or a week or a month would be going to their offices where other people in their offices would be present. She would be home, by herself, unless she called for police protection while she went out to buy a container of milk. She sent Richard an e-mail:
Came home to find a man outside my building menacing me. Threw a little death skull at me and ran away. It was a good time in New Orleans, but this isn’t good.
    No instant messaging back. She checked a couple of times before going to sleep. He did not send a reply.
    The dream came again that night, the shattered glass, with an added element, a huge death skull filling the screen of her nightmare, jarring her into wakefulness.
    She went into the kitchen for a drink of water and when she turned on the light a mouse darted across the floor. Great. New York slices of life. Maybe she should have owned a black cat, she pondered. She set out glue traps the superintendent of the building had given her on a previous mouse sighting and went back to bed, falling asleep a second time close to 6:00 A.M. and waking with the alarm at 7:15.
    She ate breakfast and went right to her computer for the Public Art Fund piece. Nancy came in from Bob’s place to change before going to work and they talked about the weekend. New Orleans with Richard was not the lead, it was the death skull. Nancy suggested that Bob stay over a while; he had spent nights there in the past, and he could just be around in the evenings. Ronnie thought that would be good, as much for the idea of not feeling isolated as for the actual security his being there would provide.
    Richard Smith called her Monday morning before nine.
    “This is bad stuff. I wish I were there. I’d go right up to Cummings and deck him.”
    “He’s a big guy. I don’t think he gets decked easily, but I appreciate the thought.”
    “The police?”
    “They’re going to watch out for me. For a while anyway. And talk to him again.”
    “Good.”
    “My roommate’s boyfriend is going to stay over, too, a few nights, I’d guess. Tell me where you are again?”
    “Portland, Oregon. Interviewing people. Are you working?”
    “I am.”
    “Good. Don’t let yourself be reduced to the level of this idiocy. I’m going to be back there soon enough.”
    Detective Santini phoned Ronnie to say they interrogated Cummings to make him feel uncomfortable. He denied involvement. They told Cummings if the harassment didn’t stop he was going to bring all kinds of problems on himself; a satanic cult operating in New York City didn’t want to be on the wrong side of the authorities.
    The first few days after the menacer appeared she was still apprehensive when she went into the street, even with a police car nearby, then she began to feel imprisoned, uneasy with the need to call for protection every time she went out. This was her neighborhood, her city, she didn’t want her freedom of movement taken away from her, they weren’t going to do that to her. Bob was staying at the apartment and after a few nights without incident, she released Bob of his obligation; she thought it was too disruptive of his life. Rourke called to say they couldn’t continue shadowing her, she should let them know if anything untoward occurred. Richard e-mailed a couple of times, saying he was a little off schedule and would be returning to New York imminently.
    The Art Fund piece was completed and submitted and she waited to hear about any possible changes. She was eating Chinese food in bed, channel surfing, and on the screen, hooded and glaring, was Randall Cummings. He was being interviewed in a television studio by the same woman reporter who