The pink shoe is a prop from a Halloween store, but the sight of it still bubbles Zandra's molten heart. It's intended to be reminiscent of Elle Carey's pink shoe, a centerpiece of Zandra's recent high-profile case. Whoever sent it read about the shoe or saw it on TV. Six months later, the media is still dissecting Zandra's misadventures at Soma Falls.

It's not even the right kind of shoe, asshole.

Zandra gives the shoe a squeeze before heading inside Sneak Peek. It makes a squeaky wheeze.

This supposed to be a dog toy? What kind of freak gives their dog a foot to chew on?

More unsettling than the corny prop is what's missing from the shoe, other than the rest of its matching leg. It didn't come in an envelope or package. Someone included another note in typewritten block letters taped to the ankle. This could only mean Zandra's "admirer" is a local.

Gene? No. Still too early. He's wrapped up with his campaign anyway.

Stepping into Sneak Peek, Zandra lights a cigarette and an apple pie candle on her desk. She takes care not to touch the note itself as she reads it.

"YOUR ASFAKEAS THIS SHOU," the letters spell out.

What?

Zandra reads it again.

Oh, it's a typo. It must mean, "YOU'RE AS FAKE AS THIS SHOE."

The words beneath that line make better sense. In unevenly spaced characters, they spell, "I HAV PROOF."

Proof?

Zandra tosses the shoe on the desk. It's a commanding oak behemoth that took three workers all afternoon to install. She bought it instead of a new car, given her newfound enthusiasm for walking. Now she's feeling a little buyer's remorse. Should've spent the money on security cameras at Sneak Peek. Could've recorded the drop at the mailbox.

That's the double-edged sword – or lawnmower knife, in Zandra's case – of Sneak Peek. It needs to look like a private place to unload what's on the minds of her clientele, despite it being anything but discreet. Security cameras don't invoke the kind of trust Zandra needs to build. It's why she invested in miniature microphones and a digital recording system. Sneak Peek's cramped interior is bugged, from floor to ceiling.

Despite the new technology, Zandra still writes files by hand on her clients, stored in a high-tech fire safe bolted to the floor of her apartment. No more junky locks and filing cabinets. The recordings provide a fail-safe and reminders on the specifics. With her fame came a host of distractions, and it's becoming more difficult to concentrate on the damning details that made her original files so deadly.

Add to that the amount of research required ahead of her high-buck readings, and Zandra's becoming downright sloppy. It's hard to say "no" to celebrity clients willing to pay thousands of dollars for an hour of her time. It's even more difficult to resist cramming four or five of those clients into a week.

That's when she started asking clients to sign non-disclosure agreements at the start of each reading. She framed it as protecting her clients' secrets and revelations, but it also covered her own ass. A few movie stars with names anyone would recognize left in the middle of their readings, frustrated by Zandra's contradicting insights.

The good readings still outnumber the bad, though. She briefly considered hiring an agent or manager or someone to help steer her ship of bullshit. But that would be letting others get too close to her.

The only one who sees everything is David. His handsome mug stares at her from inside an ornate picture frame on the oak desk. Some days she stares at him, wondering if that really was him at Soma Falls breathing life back into Elle Carey. Other days she gets double-booked and can barely remember his name.

Soon, David, soon. I'll make you whole for what Gene did to us. Just not right now.

Zandra takes another look at the latest note. Compares it to the others. They form a loose narrative:

"IM COMING FOR YOU FRAUD."

"YOUR DAUGHTER IS PRETTY."

"YOUR ASFAKEAS THIS SHOU."

"I HAV PROOF."

In addition to their questionable grammar, the typewritten letters of each statement form uneven lines. The ink isn't distributed evenly, either. Some of the serifs are missing completely.

So whoever wrote these threats did it on an old typewriter, not a printer. That only narrows it down to every typewriter on the planet.

Zandra's eyes fall to the third threat, "YOUR ASFAKEAS THIS SHOU." The U should be an E, but the writer made a typo. Something seems off, though.

It's the wrong kind of typo.

Even for a Luddite, Zandra knows the QWERTY keyboard arrangement by heart. Her schooling seared it into her brain. The E and U keys are separated by three keys in between. Is it possible the writer made a two-inch typo?

No. It's more likely this prick fat-fingered the E key.

If that's the case, there's only one explanation: the writer used a Dvorak-style key arrangement. First patented in the early 20th Century, the Dvorak keyboard is designed to be more intuitive than the standard QWERTY arrangement. However, it didn't prove to be as popular, which in this case is a benefit to Zandra. It means the writer is using an uncommon typewriter. In a town of 30,000, there's a healthy chance only a handful of people own one.

Zandra reaches into a drawer and pulls out a phone book. She's probably the only person left in Stevens Point who uses it for anything other than a drink coaster. Her fingers find the phone number for an antiques repair shop on the other side of downtown.

"Anyone stop by lately looking for a tune up on a typewriter with a Dvorak keyboard?" Zandra says into her desk phone after introducing herself.

"Dvorak? You mean that funky keyboard with the letters all screwed up?" the shop owner, Russ, says. He sounds like he just woke up.

"Yeah, that one."

"Maybe, but probably not. Actually, I'm not sure," Russ says. He shuffles what sounds like paperwork. "Uh, yeah, I guess someone stopped by."

"Well, did they or didn't they?" Zandra says.

"You the police?" the owner says.

"No, but I'd appreciate if you could tell me."

"Hey, ain't you that psychic lady? Shouldn't you be able to know without me having to look?" the owner says and chuckles.

Laugh it up. Not like I've never heard that one before.

Zandra plays along anyway. Better to keep up appearances. "OK, the spirits tell me someone stopped by your place in past couple weeks with a junked up typewriter with a Dvorak keyboard looking for a repair," she says.

"Close. Real close," Russ says. "I actually sold a typewriter with Dvorak keyboard a month or so ago."

"Who bought it?"

"Looked like a college kid or one of those hipster guys. Paid cash. That's all I can remember," Russ says.

"Hipster guys?"

"Yeah, you know. Horn-rimmed glasses. Tattoo sleeves. Probably bought the typewriter instead of a computer to be, you know, ironic or whatever."

"What model of typewriter?"

Russ pauses for a second to think. "If I remember right, it was a 1935 Royal Deluxe in pretty terrible condition. He paid me extra to get it back up to par," Russ says.

"Did he say what he wanted it for?" Zandra says.

"Yeah, he said he needed it for something," the owner says.

"Something? Like what?"

"You know. Something. That's all he said."

How helpful.

Zandra zones out while Russ goes off on a tangent about the weather or the new downtown ordinances or some other inane bullshit. She's not sure.

Instead, she builds a mental picture of the typewriting enthusiast. The hipster element, if one could call it that, usually sticks close to the University of Wisconsin— Stevens Point apartment housing. The beater houses sag close to downtown and far from reality. That's half the reason anyone moves to Stevens Point. It's a good-sized town full of the educated and the employed, surrounded by prime forests and rolling central Wisconsin hills. The other half is to work for Gene Carey's insurance company, unknowingly contributing to the bottom line of one of history's biggest fraudsters, just as soon as Zandra can prove it.

Zandra glances at the photo of David as she digs out a pen and paper from the desk. She jots down a few notes.

Dvorak keyboard.

1935 Royal Deluxe typewriter.

Male.

Horn-rimmed glasses.

Tattoos on arms.

Local.

Apartment housing near campus.

Of course, this all might be Zandra's mind fooling itself again, as she had with Gene Carey's involvement in the disappearance of his daughter six months ago. This buyer might be some local typewriting enthusiast and nothing more. The person taunting Zandra might've purchased the typewriter online somewhere.

With more time, Zandra could've narrowed the characteristics on her list even further, but it's 2 p.m. Her camera crew is here.