Her concern seems to be more for the neighborhood than for me. As she turns away, water flicks off her rain hat. Moments later she melds into the pedestrian traffic, as if she was never here.
I’m still breathing hard and my coat’s streaked with dirt, but I banish the urge to return to the apartment, wanting to get my bearings first. I hurry the remaining half block to the bistro, checking constantly over my shoulder. I collapse my umbrella and secure a table by the window so I can keep an eye on the street and whoever might be out there.
But for the moment, I glance down at the metal table and mentally play back the scene from five minutes ago. Reaching the corner, feeling the shove—almost more of a punch—and the fear grabbing hold of me as I was launched into traffic.
After the waiter takes my wine order, I inspect my palms. They’re red and raw, with a few crisscrossed, razor-thin lines where the skin’s been broken. And my forearms, which took the brunt of the fall, have started to throb like a headache. I gingerly peel off my coat and let it drape behind me.
Who would want to hurt me? New York has plenty of crazies, of course, people who think nothing of hurling total strangers onto subway tracks. Did I simply look the wrong way at someone who was unhinged?
Maybe that’s all this was, and I need to mentally move on. Though I try to sandbag my swelling panic, it sloshes over the walls, threatening to spill. I should call Hugh, I think, let him know what happened, but I don’t want to pull him away from a work event. I could try Gabby, I guess. But she’s in bed sick.
My phone rings, and to my shock, Damien’s name appears on the screen. My first instinct is to forward the call to voice mail, but I change my mind and answer.
“Hey,” he says, “I wanted to apologize for leaving on such a weird note the other day. It wasn’t fair of me.”
“That’s all right.” What does he want? I wonder. “I appreciated you checking on me.”
“Where are you, anyway?”
“At a bistro near Lincoln Center. Uh . . . I’m about to have a glass of wine.”
“What’s the matter?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t sound very good.”
It’s true, I realize. My voice is quivering.
“I fell—well, someone pushed me—into the street. A couple of minutes ago. I’m not hurt, but it freaked me out.”
“Where are you, exactly? I’m coming right now.”
“Damien, no, it’s not necessary.”
“I’m not that far. I just left a client at Eighty-Fifth and Columbus.”
The name and address spill from my lips. I can’t believe I’m doing this. But I could use the company for sure.
While I wait for him to arrive, the scene from the intersection plays on a loop in my brain. Closing my eyes, I try to recapture the exact sensation I felt in between my shoulder blades. Hard like a fist. Is someone possibly after me?
It’s only then that I recall the sense memory that was triggered seconds earlier, when I glanced at the sleeve of my coat in the rain: in my mind I could see myself dabbing at my blood-covered fingers. I can’t be sure, though, if it’s really a memory or simply an image I conjured up from thinking so much about those tissues. I glance back at my coat, bunched behind me on the banquette, but it stirs nothing now.
I’m halfway through my wine when I catch sight of Damien through the window, shaking out his small umbrella. A few seconds later he bursts through the door, and to my dismay, my heart skips at the sight of him.
He plops into a chair across from me, not bothering to take off his khaki raincoat. His face is dewy and his hair slightly darkened from rainwater.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, his voice soft.
“Just rattled. Thanks so much for coming.”
“Like I said, I wasn’t far away. How scary.”
I snicker. “This must seem like déjà vu to you. Me wet and disheveled again, looking like a total mess.”
He flashes a smile. “Well, it’s definitely not your usual look. Or, I should say, your usual look when I knew you. Did you see who pushed you?”
“No, and—maybe I’m wrong. There’s a chance someone accidentally knocked me over. But it didn’t feel that way.”
“Could it have been a random crazy person?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t have any enemies, do you?”
“I didn’t think so. Though what do I know? Everything these days seems so jumbled.”
“Because of what you went through last week?”
“Right—and . . .” Am I really going to go into it all with him? Yes. “Do you remember what happened to me when I was nine? Finding that little girl’s body?”
“Of course.”
I give him the entire update: what I remembered about the timeline, my meeting with the police yesterday.
He’s quiet when I finish. God, is this going to be like Hugh’s reaction all over again? But then he reaches for my hand. The rough calluses on his fingers make me realize he must still play the guitar.
“I’m sorry that you had to dig that all up again,” he says. “I always sensed it bothered you more than you let on.”
“I really appreciate that.” And I’m not simply being polite. His words are comforting.
“Do you think what happened tonight is connected somehow?”
“I’m not sure. If what I told the police this week got out, it could be threatening to whoever killed Jaycee. Which might be her mother or the mother’s boyfriend. And for the last twenty-four hours, I’ve had this weird sense that someone is watching me.”
“I want you to be careful, Ally. Do you promise?”
“Yes, I intend to,” I say, though I have no clue how I’m supposed to do that. “Look, I better go.”
“You want me to walk you back to your building?”
“I can get back on my own, thanks.” It wouldn’t be good to have Hugh see me accompanied home by Damien.
I quickly pay the check, and as we emerge from the bistro, I notice the rain has eased into a light, misty drizzle.
“Oh, just so you know,” I say, breaking the sudden, stilted silence, “that call to your PR person? It definitely had nothing to do with any of my projects. I found out the caller was actually this intern I’m using, but she’s doing it for a story of her own.”
His eyes widen almost imperceptibly. “Oh yeah? What’s the topic?”
I’d promised confidentiality to Sasha, and I can’t violate that now, but I still feel compelled to offer Damien a warning.
“You’d have to ask her. She’s an amateur but she’s trying to make a name for herself doing financial pieces. Looking for stuff that isn’t on the up-and-up. Go figure.”
That’s the most I should say. If he’s smart—and he is—he’ll follow the lead.
He nods, that’s all.
“But, Damien, just to reiterate, I wasn’t involved.”
“Take care,” he says. No brush of lips on my cheek this time. “I’m going to watch as you cross the street.”
I thank him and dart away, my panic mushrooming again as I hurry toward home. I’m careful at each intersection, always checking behind me. Less than ten minutes later, I’m unlocking my apartment door. And finally exhaling.