by Alana Terry
I wondered if I could make it to the front door before he noticed. But then I remembered how difficult it had been to get under the bed. Getting out would be just as slow and challenging.
I wasn’t even sure why I had bothered to grab my phone. Even if I could figure out how to silence the chirp of the buttons as I dialed 9-1-1, the dispatcher’s voice on the other end would seem like a shout in this otherwise silent room. It would be impossible to miss.
Sam would come back. He had to come back.
The man’s boots came back into view, and my ears picked up a strange sound that seemed to move with him. It reminded me of change jingling in a pocket. He walked slowly toward my side of the apartment and paused less than a foot from my bed. I tried not to breathe and prayed he couldn’t hear the deafening drum of my heartbeat.
He turned in a slow circle. I stared at his shoes—the only piece of him I could see—and tried to memorize every detail: black carpenter boots, worn to the point that the laces had begun to fray at the tips. There was a splotch of yellow paint on the sole of his left boot. I mentally prepared myself to stab him in the foot if he came any closer.
“NYPD. Put your hands on your head and turn around,” a Southern voice instructed.
A small spark of hope ignited in my chest. The man in front of my bed gasped, and a thick ring of keys dropped from his hands and clattered on the floor. They were the source of the jingling I’d heard as he walked. I stared at the keys with a vague sense of recognition.
“Get on your knees and interlock your fingers behind your head,” Detective Marx instructed. I saw his feet as he closed in on the intruder. I heard a pitiful whimper before the unmistakable snap of handcuffs.
“Please, I was just trying to help,” the intruder whined.
“You have the right to remain silent, so shut up until I ask you a question. Holly?” He sounded worried.
“Here,” I croaked as I sent the knife and phone skidding across the floor ahead of me. I wiggled out from under the bed with some difficulty.
“How on earth did you get under there?” He holstered his gun and reached down to help me up.
I would’ve objected, but he had his hand under my arm and was pulling me to my feet before I could react. I sank onto the foot of the bed and wrapped the blanket around my bare shoulders. I wore only a tank top and pajama pants; I wasn’t exactly dressed for company.
I gaped in confusion at the scene in front of me. Detective Marx stood over an older man, who knelt on the cold floor in gray sweatpants, a house coat, and black boots. The old man’s wrinkled face was twisted with fear.
“Mr. Stanley?” I glanced between the intruder and Detective Marx, unsure what to make of the situation. My fear dwindled to confusion.
“Oh, thank goodness, Holly,” Mr. Stanley gasped. “Tell him I’m not a criminal. Tell him I haven’t done anything.”
He leaned toward me in desperation, and Detective Marx put a hand on his shoulder and wrenched him back. “Sit still.”
“Stanley is my landlord.”
Detective Marx’s expression changed to one of suspicion. “Do you frequently let yourself into young women’s apartments in the middle of the night, Mr. Stanley?”
Stanley looked mortified. “No, never!” He started to shake, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold drifting through the open door or the shock of the situation he found himself in.
“To my knowledge, he’s never done this before,” I offered. Stanley was often a grumpy, if not rude, old man, but he’d never struck me as creepy. He might have been my intruder, but he hadn’t plastered the photos across the outside of my windows. And I doubted he’d been the one tapping on the glass.
Detective Marx pulled Stanley to his feet, and the old man struggled to find his balance on stiff knees. “You better have a good reason for lettin’ yourself into this young woman’s apartment, Mr. Stanley.”
I saw the moment he realized the cranky old man wasn’t the only thing out of place in my apartment. Something shifted in his expression when he saw the pictures on the windows. “Holly, shut the door. Lock it.”
The gravity in his voice had me off the bed and across the room instantly. I closed the door and flipped the dead bolts. He studied the pictures carefully from the center of the room. “When did this happen?”
“I don’t know. They weren’t there when I went to sleep.”
Detective Marx’s gaze slid to Stanley, and he took him by the elbow and led him to one of my kitchen chairs. He pushed him into it a little more forcefully than necessary and planted both of his hands on the table so that he leaned face to face with the older man “Mr. Stanley, have you been scrapbookin’ on the windows?” He nodded to the windows behind him, and Stanley paled as he looked over his shoulder.
“No. I didn’t do anything. All I did was let myself in.”
“I’m ready to hear that good reason now.”
Mr. Stanley’s eyes shifted between me and the detective who stood uncomfortably close to him. He looked so shaken that I considered asking Detective Marx to back off, but I was pretty sure that request would fall on deaf ears. “Because Holly was hurt.”
Detective Marx glanced at me, taking a quick inventory of my condition. Everything was still attached; I didn’t even have a scratch to complain about. “Hurt how?”
“She was passed out on the floor.”
Detective Marx arched his eyebrows at me in question, and I shook my head. I had no idea what Stanley was talking about. “Just how much have you had to drink tonight?”
Stanley sputtered indignantly as he tried to straighten up in the chair. “I’m not drunk. I didn’t hallucinate.”
“As you can clearly see, Ms. Holly is in good health. And she’s been that way all evenin’. You’re gonna have to try better than that.”
Stanley lifted his chin and tried to look down his bird-beak nose at Detective Marx. “Don’t speak to me like I’m an imbecile. I see that she’s fine now. But he said . . .” He glanced at me with uncertainty, and I cocked my head. “He said, ‘I think Holly’s hurt. I’m going to call the police. Unlock the door. She might need CPR,’ so I came to check.”
“He,” Detective Marx repeated, latching onto that one word. “Who is he?”
Stanley shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before. I just assumed he was a boyfriend.”
“What did he look like?”
Lines of concentration formed around Stanley’s eyes. “Tall, six three or six four. Dark hair. Beyond that he was a bit of a blur.”
It wasn’t enough detail to draw a stick figure, let alone a police sketch.
“A blur,” Detective Marx repeated flatly.
“I seem to have misplaced my glasses.”
Mmm, I wasn’t sure glasses were the issue. Standing close to him now, I could smell the alcohol on his breath. I wondered why someone would create such an elaborate charade if they didn’t intend to take advantage of it. Mr. Stanley was barely functional after his evening dance with the bottle, and they could’ve simply followed him in or knocked him out and taken the keys.
I glanced at the key ring across the room. There were probably fifty keys on it, one for every apartment. “Why do you have keys to my apartment?”
When I moved in, I had paid to have two extra dead bolts added to my door. Mr. Stanley had agreed to the renovation so long as he didn’t have to foot the bill and I gave him the keys before moving out. I was supposed to be the only person with the keys until that time. I wasn’t aware that arrangement had been changed.
Mr. Stanley hesitated. “I . . . asked for them. When the locksmith added the extra locks, I told him I wanted an extra set of keys in case you . . . left unexpectedly or there was an emergency.”
I folded my arms. “I paid for them.”
“It’s my property!” he protested.
I gritted my teeth. Detective Marx didn’t look pleased that I had derailed his interrogation with a side question, and he gave me a quelling look b
efore asking Stanley, “Did you see which way the man went?”
“It was dark.”
“Is that a no?”
Mr. Stanley nodded. A loud knock on the door made me jump. Apparently, all my nerves hadn’t quite settled down.
“It’s Sam,” a male voice called out before I could ask who was there. I unbolted the door and opened it. Sam did a quick visual assessment of me and the apartment before stepping inside. He spotted the old man sitting in my kitchen chair with his wrists cuffed behind his back. “What happened? I thought I told you to lock the door.”
“I did,” I replied defensively.
“Mr. Stanley let himself in,” Detective Marx explained. “Apparently, he has keys.”
I scowled at his mocking tone.
“Are you all right?” Sam asked me.
“Yeah . . .” My voice trailed off as I leaned out the doorway to see flashing red and blue lights . . . at 3:00 a.m. Awesome. Not only were we holding my landlord hostage, but my neighbors were all going to wish me dead. I closed the door. “What’s with all the cars?’
“I trailed a suspect from the back of the apartment complex for two blocks. I lost track of him, but I called in backup and they’re searching for him now. I doubled back to make sure you’re okay,” Sam explained.
Ah. A manhunt for the dark-haired blurry giant. That was going to be fruitful.
“Did you get a good look?” Detective Marx asked.
“No, he was dressed in black. I can tell you he was tall, but not much more than that.”
Mr. Stanley shifted anxiously in the chair as he looked at each of us. His gaze finally settled on Detective Marx. “Are you gonna arrest me?”
“No, you’re not under arrest.” Detective Marx removed the handcuffs, and Mr. Stanley rubbed his wrists as he rose from the chair. “Take your keys and get out.”
Mr. Stanley plucked the key ring off the floor with quivering fingers and hurried toward the door. I opened it to let him escape, but he froze on the doorstep when Detective Marx called, “And Mr. Stanley . . . knock next time.” The older man nodded anxiously before disappearing up the steps.
Detective Marx gripped the back of the chair. He looked as tired as I felt. “Somebody tell me what happened.”
Sam described the events from his perspective, and then Detective Marx looked at me for more information.
“I woke up to a strange sound. He was tapping on the window, like he wanted me to notice him.”
“Because he knew you would tell the officer at the front door, and he could draw away your protection. And then he mixed your landlord up in this mess. Why?” His eyes grew distant as he tried to work it out. “We’re missin’ somethin’.”
“Maybe he just wanted to scare her,” Sam offered.
Detective Marx pushed off the chair and crossed the room. He walked along the wall, absorbing the photos from beginning to end. I fidgeted when he walked back and started again, his eyes studying the first few pictures.
It was unnerving enough to think that whoever had taken those photos had crouched outside my window and watched me as I slept and changed my clothes; I didn’t want other people looking at them.
“In most of these pictures you’re with other people, but these here. . .” Detective Marx gestured to the photos of my morning routine. “These are more intimate. Just you.”
“He obviously watched her get dressed, but she’s decently covered in all the photos,” Sam observed.
“I’ve no doubt he took photos of her in between these, but I’m guessin’ he knew we would be examinin’ them, and he’s possessive enough that he doesn’t want anybody else lookin’ at her.”
My stomach lurched.
“Why plaster them on the windows?” Sam asked.
“Because he wants her to know she’s vulnerable, that he’s watchin’ and he can get to her whenever he wants. If he hadn’t intentionally woken her up, we would never have even known he was outside the window.”
“What does he want from me?” I asked. I had nothing of any value, and I’d never done anything to anyone that might inspire a desire for revenge.
Detective Marx looked at me and frowned, but he kept whatever he was thinking to himself. “I don’t know. And until I figure out how to put a stop to this, you need to work with me.”
“I haven’t shoved you out the door yet,” I pointed out with a hint of irritation. “What more do you want from me?” I wished I could take the words back the moment they left my lips. I hadn’t meant to sound so snotty.
Detective Marx cocked an eyebrow at me. “You know, you have a very big attitude for such a small person.”
I pressed my lips together.
“And as for what I want, I want a name for the man who did this, but we both know how pointless that conversation is. And I want you to be smarter.”
I glared at him as my temper flared. “I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were stupid.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his tired face. “Look, I know you’re stressed, you’re scared, and you’re not fond of cops—for whatever reason—and you’re havin’ a hard time with this, but we’re on the same side, Holly.”
I clenched my teeth and made an effort to control my attitude, which had been sharpened to a fine point by both fear and exhaustion, and asked as reasonably as I could manage, “What do you want me to do, Detective?”
“For one, quit callin’ me Detective. You can call me Richard or Marx, whichever you prefer. And second, I need you to understand that the more risks you take, the more danger it puts you and my officers in. I will do everythin’ in my power to keep you safe, but no more spontaneous trips to the hospital without givin’ us a heads up.” He gestured to the photos taken at the hospital. “No goin’ for runs or walks around the city. If you need to go out, we need to know in advance so we can plan accordin’ly.”
I wanted to tell him no, but I couldn’t ignore the fact that this stalker scared me. I was afraid of what might happen if I ran into him alone.
“Okay,” I agreed reluctantly.
He tapped a finger on the handle of the kitchen knife now lying on the table. “And none of this. We’re here to protect you, so the moment you feel threatened by anythin’ or anyone, tell us immediately. Please . . . do not grab a kitchen knife and investigate it yourself first.”
“I’m not . . .”
He arched an eyebrow, and I clamped my mouth shut to avoid rudely reminding him I wasn’t helpless and incapable. I desperately needed to sleep before I said something I would regret.
When I remained silent, he said, “Let’s get these windows covered. If he enjoys watchin’ you while you sleep, the least we can do is disappoint him.”
We blacked out the rear windows of the apartment with bath towels, and my apartment quickly transformed into a dungeon.
Chapter 12
I CLOSED THE FRONT door before dropping back against it with a shaky breath. It was five a.m. and I was exhausted after a fitful night of sleep, but I couldn’t bring myself to crawl back beneath the covers.
Nothing but nightmares waited for me there.
Most of my nightmares were tolerable—vague images and feelings I could shake off when I woke—but some clung to me for hours after waking. It hadn’t been my own screams that woke me tonight, but Sam pounding frantically on the door.
Apparently, I had sounded like I was being murdered—brutally—and after my stalker’s visit the other night, Sam wouldn’t accept my explanation that it had only been a nightmare without seeing for himself that I was all right. So I had dragged myself out of bed and wrenched open the front door to show him that I was still in one rumpled, shaky piece.
I combed back my damp hair with my fingers and went into the bathroom to clean up. I showered and changed into fresh clothes, and I felt marginally human again.
I plopped onto the end of my bed and glared at the towels and blankets that covered my windows. One lone light bulb on the ceiling did little to illuminate my d
ungeon. Maybe I should invest in torches. At least that would improve the ambiance.
I picked up my notebook and stared down at the entry I’d started last night.
Dear Jesus,
Today I am thankful for . . .
So much had gone wrong lately that I struggled to find something to be grateful for. God understood the unrest I was feeling, so I didn’t really feel the need to write it out.
I picked up my pen and wrote a single word: You.
I closed the notebook with the pen still between the pages and set it aside. Jordan hopped up and down by the end of the bed, and I dragged the tubby beast onto the mattress with me. He chortled and dropped a soggy blob of cat food onto my notebook.
Lovely.
I’d found a piece in my slipper earlier. I shook the cat food off onto the floor and rubbed his head. He couldn’t help that there was a wire crossed in there somewhere.
I stood and stretched. I needed to do something to take my mind off the nightmares that left my insides feeling like a twisted-up slinky. A run wasn’t an option; even if it weren’t pitch black outside, Marx would lose his Southern cool if I deliberately ignored his warnings.
Something to do . . .
I paused in front of the couch and stared at the ghastly yellow wall. It reminded me of . . . pee . . . and Cheerios, but I wasn’t really sure what the connection was there.
I had a few partial tubs of paint that I had picked up here and there, and I was pretty sure I had . . . I rummaged under the sink . . . yep, a paint roller and paint tray.
I dragged everything I needed over into the living room. I squeezed between the wall and my couch and tried to move it with my hips. It slid inch by agonizingly slow inch. Good grief, it was heavy.
Free of the couch, I propped my hands on my hips and gazed at my hideous yellow canvas. My paint options weren’t ideal: moss green, Care Bear purple, and hot pink . . . which terrified me a little. I chewed on my lip as I considered the options.
Care Bear purple. It was the least offensive. I poured it into the pan and dove headfirst into my project. Projects were a good distraction from the troubles of life.
