Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book (27 page)

“Take care of yourself, Babe.”

Then he walked out.

Charlie was gone. I had no time to wallow because gathering, sorting, and boxing all of my clothes and beauty products was going to take way longer than two hours. I called Felix to
see if he could come up to Charlie’s place to help me, but he was “at his daughter’s quinceañera.” No one is reliable anymore. No one.

The next couple of hours were a frantic blur of packing, crying, packing some more, whimpering a little, etc. Once I had all my must-haves packed (the rest were basics that I could replace), I decided it was time to get the fuck out of there.

I did a quick scan of the bedroom, bathroom, and office (where I retrieved my white iPad mini and my black iPad regular). Then I circled back into the kitchen to grab a trash bag, which is where I noticed that Charlie had left the ring box sitting on the kitchen counter. I couldn’t help myself from trying it on. It fit perfectly. Was this my journey, to walk away from a life with Charlie? I stared at the ring, contemplating my decision, and realized that my ring finger was twice the size of Charlie’s penis. There was nothing more to do but take off the engagement ring, put it back in its box, thank the universe for giving me a solid sign that Charlie wasn’t right for me, and step boldly toward my future without him.

I went to throw away those disgusting roses, but discovered that the head of each flower had been chopped off, and a mess of rainbow petals covered the entryway floor. A small envelope now sat next to the bunch of headless stems. I was frozen. Someone had been in the apartment with me. They probably still were. I opened the envelope to reveal the note within.

This is all it said:

Tonight.

“H
eyyyyyyyy, Cassie, it’s me, Babe Walker. I heard you’re getting lipo in LA this weekend. Love that for you. Um, I’m actually kind of homeless and was wondering if I could crash at your place for a few days while you’re out of town? What thread count are the sheets in your guest room? Call me back when you get this.”

This was my third futile phone call for help. The realization that my stalker (maybe Thalia, maybe not, I had no fucking clue at this point) was still at large, and had clearly broken into Charlie’s apartment and slashed Robert’s roses while I’d been packing, caused me to run screaming into the hallway, letting the door shut and lock behind me. When I went down to the lobby to beg for help getting back in, I was informed that Charlie had already removed me from his “approved entry”
list. This information caused me to brownout and utter some choice words to the doorman, and I quickly found myself being escorted out of Charlie’s building and told not to come back or else the police would be called. I’d tried Charlie’s cell, but of course he didn’t answer, and now, in a matter of minutes, one of my worst fears had come true: I was on the cruel streets of New York City with a white iPhone as my only possession. To make matters worse, I was still in my packing outfit: vintage overalls, a T by Alexander Wang wifebeater, and Chanel flats. A look that was never intended for the public. And no wallet, credit cards, or ID meant no hotel. I was officially a homeless person.

I had to figure something out, and fast. I was starting to get cold and hungry, which was an altogether new sensation for me. I mean, I’m always cold but never hungry. There must be something about homelessness that causes hunger. My dad was on a yacht with Lizbeth somewhere with no Wi-Fi, and thus was unreachable, so asking him to save me was out, and having no hotel option was forcing me to rely on the kindness of others, which made me physically ill. Everyone I’d called was either at dinner, or in Miami, or simply refusing my attempts to seek shelter by not answering their phones. The realization that you are all alone in the world and have no one is tough, but coming to that realization while wearing overalls on the street where the world can see/judge you is an experience that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy or thinnest friend.

I only had one other option. I scrolled through my contacts, located the number I needed, and pressed Call.

The phone rang three times.

“Hello?”

“Heyyyyyyyyyy, Donna. It’s Babe, your daughter.”

“Hi, Babe. How are you? I have Gina here. Gina, say hi.”

“Hey, honey. Missing you like fucking crazy,” said Gina. “How are you?”

“Um, I’m not totally great.” I started tearing up. When you’re in a sad and lonely place, hearing a familiar voice immediately turns on the waterworks.

“My boyfriend just broke up with me and had me thrown out of his apartment building and I can’t get ahold of him to get my stuff back and my phone has like twenty-one percent battery left and I have no money and nowhere to go. I’m
homeless. Also, someone has been stalking me for almost a year now and leaving me these death-threat-note thingies, I thought it was this crazy Russian bitch I knew, but whoever it is will probably murder me while I’m sleeping in a subway station tonight. And I’m wearing a really sad outfit. Like, I’ve never hated an outfit more in my life. That’s how I am. How are you?”

“Oh, Babe,” Gina said. “Come here. Come upstate for the weekend and stay with us.”

“We’ll have one of the guest rooms upstairs made up for you,” Donna chimed in, taking back the phone.

“Oh noooooooooo. I couldn’t impose on you guys like that. I’ll be fine.”

“Babe, seriously, it’s not an imposition.”

“Oh my fuck, thank you sooooo much. I’m dying out here. This city is so harsh.”

“Babe, stop it. You’re family. There’s a train that leaves from Grand Central at 8 p.m. We’ll get you a ticket and email you the details ASAP.”

“That isn’t gonna work, because I don’t have an ID.”

“You shouldn’t need an ID to get on a train, just a ticket.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Have you ever taken a train?” asked Donna flatly.

“Um. In Europe, yes. In the continental U.S., no.”

“Okay, well, today’s your lucky day. Babe’s first train ride.”

“Is it safe?” I was scared.

“We’re sending you a ticket and you’re coming here. No questions.”

“Seriously, Donna, you don’t have to invite me to stay with
you. I mean, I’ll probably die tonight if you don’t, but that wouldn’t be your fault.”

“Babe. Shut the fuck up. You’re coming here!” shouted Gina. “Get to Grand Central before your phone dies. We’re gonna text you our address, so take a cab when you get off the train and we will pay for it when you get to the house. See you soon!”

I made it to Grand Central in one piece. The train car smelled like farts, but luckily it was empty so I didn’t have to sit next to any shims or mers. I’d been saved! I was momentarily ecstatic that I wouldn’t have to sleep at a bus stop, but then completely terrified because my stalker situation was coming to a head. “Tonight”? What did that even mean? Who was this person? I had to get to the bottom of this mystery. I started making lists in my head. Lists of everyone who had been around me each time I’d gotten notes:

My guest house (on the mirror)

Chateau Marmont (on the iPad)

Guest house again (destroyed Terry Richardson portrait)

Hotel room in Paris (bathroom door)

New York in Charlie’s apartment (box of lipsticks)

New York at The Carlyle (on my compact)

New York in Charlie’s apartment again (the roses)

Obviously the stalker was someone who had money/a relaxed work schedule, because they’d been able to follow me all over the world.

I jotted down a list of potential murderers on the back of a
Wall Street Journal
that I found on the train.

Potential Murderers

Thalia

Tara Reid

A Psycho Fan

Cal

Charlie

Paul

1. Thalia

The idea that Thalia was my stalker had been put to bed after I terrorized that restaurant at The Carlyle and we’d found out that she’d been arrested and deported back to Russia. But she still made the most sense, although her motives were unclear. Why would Thalia even want to kill me in the first place? Because I was rude to her at Genevieve’s party? I mean, she’s totally
Single White Female
obsessed with me, but I honestly don’t think she’s crazy enough to actually hurt me, much less kill me. She’s the type of girl who’d hire someone to kill me, but this wasn’t the work of a hired hitman. I’ve seen
A Perfect Murder
enough times to know that hitmen don’t leave notes, they just fucking kill you. Plus, according to her sick habit of geotagging all her posts on Instagram, Thalia was still in Russia, so she couldn’t have broken into Charlie’s place. Thalia was officially no longer a suspect.

2. Tara Reid

Probably not.

3. A Psycho Fan

Psychos are legit so insane these days. An obsessed fan of my first book (or anyone who’s seen how amazing my hair has looked over the past year) could have decided that they wanted to eat me in order to become me. I offered too much of myself in that book. Damnit. I should’ve never written about my labiaplasty.

But I never forget a face, and I’m constantly aware of my surroundings, so I’m sure I would have recognized a random stranger lurking about. Also, these notes and attacks weren’t the musings of just any old stalker. No, my stalker knew me. Knew me well. It had to be someone I’d fucked.

4. Cal

He may have granted me the gift of Life’s Best Sex, but Cal obviously had it out for me the entire time I was with him. In addition to his general malicious nature, Cal had to be at least semi-good at planning and plotting horrible things. His intrusion into my life was an assault on everything I hold dear: my body, my mind, and my Birkins. He was for sure capable of following a young, beautiful girl around the world if he wanted to. Stalker potential.

5. Charlie

He was in LA when I was there, he was in New York, still not sure what a hedge fund is, and he definitely has the dick of a stalker, but there was just no way. He’s too sweet. And he really loved me. Fuck, I’m such a bitch.

6. Paul

Is Paul Courtyard’s ghost stalking me?

He did show up at my guest house unannounced the night he died, which was suspect in the first place. Maybe Paul escaped from rehab on a mission to find me and kill me, but he accidentally died, so his ghost attached itself to me from the afterlife and is following me around the world in an attempt to finish what Paul started, i.e., drag me to heaven/hell/wherever so that our spirits will be united forever.

The “Paul’s Ghost as a Stalker” theory was actually terrifying, so I called Myrta, my psychic, to run it by her and see what she thought. She did a spirit reading over the phone and had a vision of Paul “swimming in a pool of wine,” which she said confirmed that he had fully crossed over to the other side, thank God. Paul wasn’t trying to kill me.

No, the person who was after me had to know me well enough to track my every move without my noticing. I’m usually on the lookout for creepy people driving or walking or talking or breathing too close to me anyway, so my stalker was stealthy. It had to be someone close to me. Someone who knew me well. But who? Who has known my whereabouts since I got out of rehab besides my dad?

And then it hit me. The only person who’d been in almost every city I was in when I got stalker notes was . . .

7. Robert

He’d picked me up at the guest house that day we went for a hike, he’d stayed at Chateau Marmont at the same time as me,
that must’ve been him at Silencio in Paris, and he’d been living in NYC ever since. Robert was the perfect killer prototype: tall, dark, handsome, successful—a living, breathing Patrick Bateman. Only until recently had his slick facade started to crack. Maybe his feelings for me were reignited, causing him to abandon his relationship with Michelle, thus losing his grip on the perfect life he thought he’d have for himself. And now, after being unable to come to terms with the loss of Michelle and the loss of me, it’s caused him to lose his mind.

I knew he was unraveling when I first saw him in NYC. It was so obvious. I mean, Crocs and a mock turtleneck? Roberto wasn’t Robert’s alter ego, à la Babette. There was no Roberto. There was Robert: The Killer. Driven to madness by love. He’d become utterly obsessed with me and needed to possess me, body and soul, in death. And now he could be anywhere. Lying in wait, ready to end my life. Fuck. I should have forced Felix to drive me upstate. This train was not safe.