When she arrived at the office each morning, the first thing Paige did was play back the telephone messages that had come in since close-of-business the night before. This morning, she felt sorry for the somewhat pathetic caller who confessed such deep admiration for Eliza Blake. The answering system, which time-stamped each call, indicated the message had come in just after midnight.
“People’s lives,” Paige sighed as she erased the call.
For the most part Paige Tintle enjoyed the next task of the morning, sifting through Eliza’s mail. There were all sorts of letters and invitations from interesting people doing important things. As Eliza’s personal assistant, Paige’s job was to sort though the incoming documents, cull the things that Eliza had to see to herself, and deal with answering the dozens of requests for Eliza to speak or to attend various functions.
Paige also handled the mail from viewers. Much of it was routine. Viewers complimenting Eliza on a story she had done, or the clothes she had worn, or the way her hair had been styled. Some of it was critical, accusing Eliza of having a liberal or conservative agenda which, according to the particular writer’s viewpoint, she was unfairly advancing through her stories as the anchor of a major television network’s evening news broadcast.
But the letters Paige dreaded reading were the ones from the nuts. Some were mildly troubling. Some were downright scary.
This morning’s mail had brought another really sick one from the guy who had written before, and Paige reread this new one nervously, fingering the small diamond cross that hung from the silver chain around her neck.
Dear Miss Arrogant Defiant Eliza Blake,
How many times do I have to tell you?
In spite of my persistent warnings, you continue to wear those tight, short skirts that show too much. You look like a whore.
You are really asking for it. And I am going to be the one to give it to you.
Keep it up, news girl, and I swear to God, you’ll be red and raw and bloody when I’m finished with you.
Paige shivered as she read the scrawled signature, MEAT.
Carefully she held the letter by its corner as she had been told to do, and slipped it and its envelope into a larger paper wrapper. She was relieved to send it on to security.
She didn’t want it anywhere near her.