Well, I already know that. It’s Emerson. We’re inside, well away from the door, but I feel another whisper of cold on the nape of my neck. If he’s in here right now, watching me eat lunch with Eva…
“Who’s paying attention to you?” I ask Eva.
“Nobody at all, which is how I like it.”
“Sure they’re not. You want me to believe that nobody saw you at the Christmas gala or at Leo’s wedding? Nobody tried to ask you on a date?”
“No one tried to ask me on a date.” I know, I just know, that she’s being specific in this way because someone talked to her but they didn’t ask her to dinner. Eva flushes slightly.
“Who was it?”
“There was no date,” she insists, but her resolve doesn’t last. “I ran into Finn Hughes at the gala. He helped me with the mince pies.”
The mince pies were ruined at Christmas. Actually they were fine, but our mother didn’t think they were up to par. I put a hand to my chest.
“I’m offended. I offered to help you, and you invited Finn Hughes down to the kitchen instead?”
“Please. He wandered in.”
“So you—” I bat my eyes at her, exaggerated enough to make her laugh. “Oh, Finn, please, I couldn’t possibly fix these mince pies by myself.”
“Yes, Daphne. It was exactly like that.”
I remember her talking about how she’d never marry a Constantine. Finn Hughes doesn’t share the last name, but he’s in their family tree. Is that who she was thinking about? I wouldn’t trust one as far as I could throw him. No matter how charming he looks. Or how nice he seems. It’s all a front.
We move on from Christmas to Leo’s wedding and then to general Bishop’s Landing gossip. Eva hears a lot, though she lives in the city. I’m lulled by her stories and the chance to tell her about my paintings and I almost, almost, forget that every move I make is being watched.
Until it happens again.
This time I turn my head to the side and try to find the watcher. No one meets my eyes. No one looks in my direction. It’s a restaurant full of people eating a lunch that’s basically a dinner at this point. No hint of Emerson’s blue-green eyes. No hint of his hair, or the way he stands. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
“What is it?” Eva peers around me, trying to see what I’m looking for. “Somebody here?”
“No,” I tell her. “I thought I heard my name.”
I thought I felt eyes on me. I know I felt eyes on me. Unless I’m losing my sense of reality. That happens to artists sometimes. They get lost in a piece, or in a project, and the real world fades away.
That’s not what’s happening to me. My concentration on my work lasts an hour at most, and then I’m back to thinking of Emerson.
The bodyguards accompany me home from lunch in a black SUV. I’m not supposed to take Ubers anymore—Leo doesn’t think it’s safe. And yet…the SUV didn’t stop someone from watching me in the art supply store, or the restaurant.
By the time I close the apartment door behind me, it’s a pressure on my skin. My heart races. Someone is watching. I know they are, and I think I know who it is. I perch in the window seat in my bedroom and look down on the street below.
I’m tired of waiting.
The thought trickles in, tiny drops of realization that slowly fill my gut.
I’m tired of waiting for him to get closer and closer until he catches me. That night at the gallery. The painting in my apartment. The flowers. Emerson talks to me over text with the kind of infinite patience that tells me he has a plan. He’s in no rush because he’s made a decision about me. He wants me, and he’s going to keep doing this, and I am tired of playing games.
I want to be the one to choose. No more waiting for him to reveal himself. He’s already shown me what he’s capable of. The lock on the door of this place won’t keep him out.
I don’t want it to keep him out.
I want to go to him.
Daphne: Are you in the city?
His reply takes almost no time.
Emerson: Yes.
Daphne: Can you come get me?
Emerson: Are you hurt?
No. No, I am not hurt. I want out of this pressure around my ears, around my head. I want out of this little apartment with the security off this street. I want a few minutes where nobody is watching me.
Except Emerson.
Daphne: I want to go with you. I’m not hurt. Can you come?
I put my coat back on and transfer my essentials to the pockets. My purse feels like too much of a burden right now. All I need is my slim wallet and my phone. I’ll be back before long, and when I come back, I’ll be able to breathe.
Emerson: Ten minutes.
The traffic gets heavier over the next ten minutes. My security guards pull the SUV into an alley down the street. They change shifts. New guards take their posts. Afternoons are so short in January. The days are short. It’s basically dark when I turn on a soft lamp in my living room and text the people on the night shift.
Daphne: I’m in for the night!!
It makes me feel lightheaded to lie. It makes my heart pound with guilt. But they just text back a thumbs-up emoji. I brush my teeth and go back to watching the traffic.
Emerson: Are you ready, little painter?
Daphne: Yes, but I don’t see you
Emerson: Go out through the alley. Opposite way. Turn left and walk two blocks.
Daphne: Okay
I get up and go before I can change my mind. The last thing I grab is my keys, to lock the door. Down the stairs. A moving shadow scares the shit out of me at the bottom and I freeze.
Robert. In the gallery. He hasn’t locked up yet. In a few minutes, he’ll be coming through to the outside.
Now or never. If I go back upstairs, I’ll lose my nerve. So I don’t. I tiptoe down the last two steps, lean my head out to make sure he’s gone back into the main gallery, and slip out the alley door.
It’s like being hit with a wall of snow. Every sense is alive. I smell bitter wind and concrete, feel the breeze playing with my hair. Please, let them not be watching the alley right now. Please let them not be watching. I walk close to the wall, trying to hide in the shadows, and reach the other end of the alley.
Turn left.
Two blocks.
I keep expecting footsteps to run after me. For my name to echo off the buildings. Half a block down. A full block. I look both ways and cross the street. I don’t see him—I don’t see Emerson. Dread and shame make my throat tight. Would he trick me like this? Lure me? Eva said that being a Morelli is about paying attention, and what did I do? I snuck away from my security to meet a dangerous man.
I’m a third of the way down the second block and about to turn back when a dark gray SUV glides to the curve. The back door opens.
Emerson steps onto the sidewalk and holds out his hand to me. I break into a run, like there’s someone chasing me, and let him help me into the car. It’s warm inside. It smells new and like him. He wastes no time sitting down and pulling the door closed.
His driver pulls back into traffic. I’m breathing hard, my eyes glued on the sidewalk. Emerson’s watching, too. We pass by the alley that leads to my place. It’s blessedly empty. As soon as he sees it is, he turns back to me with those stunning eyes, with that face.
“I made it,” I tell him. I’m gripping my collar for dear life. This is the most reckless thing I’ve ever done. The worst thing I’ve ever done. It’s bad. And it feels good.