“I’m sorry,” I say as he studies me, his expression unreadable. “Please don’t be mad. It’s just . . . the other night was so real, I—”
“It was a visual disturbance, I can assure you,” he says, his tone calm and steady and reassuring. “All the doors and windows were locked both nights. It was just me and you here. No one else.”
His words ease my mind, but my body is still tight, wound.
I don’t address the journal. The heat of shame is too hot, too fresh. I need to find the right words, though I’m not sure those exist in this situation.
I was in the wrong.
I let curiosity steer the ship.
And now I’m humiliated.
“Here,” he says, wrapping his long fingers around my wrist. He leads me to his bedroom next, and I realize I still haven’t asked why he came back. “Why don’t you check the windows while I’m here? It’ll make you feel better.”
Now I feel silly. But we’re standing in the middle of his room now, so I check the windows.
“All good?” he asks a few seconds later.
I’m grateful he hasn’t mentioned the journal. If he’s as tactful and understanding as he’s proven to be, I could see him letting it go—at least for now.
I nod, wasting no time leaving his room and trying not to gawk at the perfectly tucked corners of his made bed. There’s nothing personal about this space. It could pass for a bed-and-breakfast room. And that tells me he has no plans to make himself at home, at least not for an extended period of time.
We’re in the hall when I watch him return to his study, grab a stack of papers from his middle desk drawer, and tuck them under his arm.
Divorce papers, perhaps?
“I’m sorry, Niall,” I say again.
He places his hand on my left shoulder, his pale-blue gaze softening. “Don’t ever apologize. This is your home. You deserve to feel safe here. Just know that I would never do anything that would jeopardize that.”
“No, I mean . . .” My words fade. I’ve never been good at just letting things go. They tend to eat away at me and become unhealthy obsessions until they’re addressed properly. “I shouldn’t have . . .”
He offers a gracious wince, a silent acceptance of a silent apology. His hand leaves me, a cool spot taking its place, and he makes his way to the stairs.
I stay on the second level, checking the windows in the remaining spare rooms—two more bedrooms outfitted for guests who will never use them.
All clear.
I go up the stairs. I pass his study, where the door remains wide open and the colorful journal rests splayed on the floor.
Every part of me wants to pick up where I left off, wants to stick my nose deep in his marital business despite the fact that it has no business being there. I was three paragraphs into the emotional dissolution of their marriage, his wife revealing Niall’s human and imperfect side, and now I’m dying for more.
But I can’t.
It wouldn’t be right.
And if I were to get caught again? I can’t imagine he’d be so gracious the second time around. He’d have every right to put me in my place, pack up, and leave.
I make my way downstairs and vow to spend the rest of the day distracting myself from the pages all but calling my name from upstairs.
CHAPTER 8
“The destination is on your right,” the GPS plays through my car speakers.
Both of my hands grip the steering wheel, and I’m certain they haven’t moved an inch since I backed out of my driveway fifteen minutes ago. The number of times I’ve left my house in the past six months I could probably count on two hands, and even that number might be generous. But the way I see it, I don’t have a choice in this matter.
I pull into a circle drive outside a ten-story Art Deco giant just south of the square late Monday afternoon, my heart in my teeth and the prick of sweat threatening the nape of my neck. It’s not far from my old office on the square. I’ve passed this place a thousand times before, never giving it a second thought. In fact, I’d heard it had recently gone through renovations, but I had no idea it would be turned into an apartment complex.
I locate a guest parking spot, pull in, and kill the engine before climbing out and preparing my umbrella for the short walk to the front door.
A small sign to the right of the entrance reads THE HARCOURT and then 138 HAYWORTH STREET. An inset plaque reads BUILT IN 1921. A white sign above the door that reads NOW LEASING is a modern if not jarring juxtaposition that almost ruins the otherworldly effect.
There’s no doorman. No other residents in the entry. A small camera is mounted on the ceiling in one corner, but there’s no blinking red light. For all I know, it’s for show—that or it hasn’t been connected yet. The remodeling job is so new on this place that it still has that distinct new-construction smell while simultaneously making me feel like I time traveled. Terrazzo floors with marble inlays, hand-painted murals, and impressive etched glass pendants fill the expansive lobby.
All I need is a flapper dress, a champagne flute in my hand, and a dashing Gatsbyesque gentleman on my arm.
A small door to my left has the words “Manager’s Office” fixed on a plaque along with office hours and an after-hours emergency line. It’s after five now. Any staff has left for the day.
It took me most of the day to work up the courage to come here. For hours I waffled. I hemmed and hawed only to conclude that this was my only option. Without proof of identity theft and financial fraud, I don’t feel like I have a case I can take to the police.
I’m on my own, and if I don’t stop this woman now, who knows what she’ll do next with my information.
I stop at a cluster of mailboxes, scanning the rows upon rows of names corresponding to each shiny door.
Gasping, I almost choke on my own breath.
APARTMENT 2B—B. DOUGRAY
I shouldn’t be surprised, but there’s something about seeing this in person that makes it all too real.
Gathering my wits, I linger in the lobby, head spinning. It could be said that I watch too many true crime shows. Too much Dateline and 48 Hours. Too many of those episodic Netflix crime documentaries that take you deep into the minds of murderers and psychopaths. My thoughts are filled to the brim with possibilities, hundreds of ways this could go.
It could be a trap. A setup. A lure.
But who would draw me here?
And why?
My social circle literally consists of Niall and sometimes Enid Davies next door.
The attack was random (say the police).
And to my so-called friends, I might as well be nonexistent, completely written off.
To my knowledge, I don’t have a single enemy.
Fishing inside my purse, I retrieve my self-defense key chain, readying my keys between my knuckles like a makeshift shiv.
My iPhone is freely available in my left pocket, and I read in an article once that if you press the “Power” button five times in a row, it’ll send your phone into SOS mode and silently dial 911.
I didn’t come all this way just to run away, but preparedness saves lives.
I make my way to the elevator, only to find an OUT OF ORDER sign taped to the front.
Locating the stairs, I take them one by one, then two by two until I realize being breathless is not going to help me in case of an attack.