The Fiend by Margaret Millar

having to pay, and money was very short.
    She had received no check from Sheridan for temporary support for nearly two months. She knew it was Sheridan’s way of punishing her for keeping him away from Mary Martha but she was determined not to give in. She was strong—stronger than he was—and in the end she would win, she would get the money she needed to bring Mary Martha up in the manner she de­served. Things would be as they were before. She would have a woman to do the cleaning and laundering, a seamstress to make Mary Martha’s school clothes, a gardener to mow the vast lawn and cut the hedges and spray the poison oak. The groceries would be delivered and she would sign the bill without bothering to check it and tip the delivery boy with real money, not a smile, the way she had to tip everyone now.
    These smile tips didn’t cost her anything but they were expen­sive. They came out of her most private account, her personal capital. Nothing had been added to this capital for a long time; she had been neither loved nor loving, she offered no mercy and accepted none; hungry, she refused to eat; weary, she couldn’t rest; alone, she reached out to no one. Sometimes at night, when Mary Martha was in bed asleep and the house seemed like a huge empty cave, Kate could feel her impending bankruptcy but she didn’t realize that it had very little connection with lack of money.
    She was vacuuming the main living room when she saw the postman coming up the flagstone walk. She went out into the hall but she didn’t open the door to exchange greetings with him. She waited until he dropped the mail in the slot, then she scooped it up greedily from the floor. There was no check from Sheridan, only a couple of bills and a white envelope with her name and address printed on it. The contents of the envelope were squeezed into one corner like a coin wrapped in paper and her first thought was that Sheridan was playing another trick on her, sending her a dime or a quarter to imply she was worth no more than that. She ripped open the envelope with her thumb­nail. There was no coin inside. A piece of notepaper had simply been folded and refolded many times, the way a child might fold a note to be secretly passed during class
    The note was neatly printed in black ink:
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    Your daughter takes too dangerous risks with her deli­cate body. Children must be guarded against the cruel haz­ards of life and fed good, nourishing food so their bones will be padded. Also clothing. You should put plenty of clothing on her, keep arms and legs covered, etc. In the name of God please take better care of your little girl.
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    She stood for a minute, half paralyzed with shock. Then, when her blood began to flow again, she reread the note, more slowly and carefully. It didn’t make sense. No one—not even Sheridan, who’d accused her of everything else—had ever ac­cused her of neglecting Mary Martha. She was well fed, well clothed, well supervised. She was, moreover, rather a timid child, not given to taking dangerous risks or risks of any kind unless challenged by Jessie.
    Kate refolded the note and put it back in the envelope. She thought, it can’t be a mistake because it’s addressed to me and my name’s spelled correctly. Perhaps there’s some religious crank in the neighborhood who’s prejudiced against divorced women, but it hardly seems possible now that divorce is so common.
    Only one thing was certain: the letter was an attack, and the person most likely to attack her was Sheridan.
    She went out into the hall and telephoned Ralph MacPherson’s office. “Mac, I hate to bother you again.”
    â€œThat’s all right, Kate. Are you feeling better today?”
    â€œI was, until the mail came. I just received an anonymous letter and I think I know who—”
    â€œDon’t think about it at all, Kate. Tear it up and forget it.”
    â€œNo, I