Paranoia is Exhausting

Marsha was quite upset. Someone had stolen her identity and was posting vicious remarks on social media. She was an exotic dancer and worked days as a personal assistant to a successful writer of erotic romances.
The phone calls were the worst. Creepy messages in a disguised voice. UPS delivered boxes full of decapitated dolls, punctured Beanie Babies, lacerated Minions figurines.
One call contained a two sentence message. "I am the real Marsha Mellow. You are the imposter."
Her dancing was disjointed as paranoia ruled her life. She made mistakes on her day job. Her life was unraveling. She needed help.
Her father had told her years before if she needed help call Rocco.
She called him, explained the problem.
Rocco asked who might hqave something against her.
The only person she could think of was Chelsea Findley, a fellow dancer who was second string, while Marsha was the main attraction.
The next night Chelsea didn't show up. In the morning, Marsha found a package on her doorstep. It contained black silk thong underwear.
The calls stopped. So did the posts. Marsha calmed down. Until another box arrived in the night.
Inside--Rocco's head.
Chelsea showed up smiling. Marsha locked herself in the dressing room. Her nightmare was just beginning.

What She Tells Me

This is what she tells me. Someone is breaking into her condo and moving things around. There is no video because they are all in on it. Where ever she goes she is being recorded. It's not her cleaning woman. Cops, the super, strangers. Others.
I say nothing. I can't even nod. I give her my serious look so she doesn't get more upset.
I have no friends, she says.
The words hang helplessly above us.
I shrug, pick up the check and walk out, continuing with my life.