Watching Their Steps

by Alana Terry

  “We were talking about cops,” I said slowly, as if he’d forgotten. “It was a pretty brief conversation and we’re done with it now.” I hopped off the queen-size bed and walked to the window.

  “I’m pretty sure we were discussin’ somethin’ else.”

  “Nope.” I didn’t want him to know how insecure I felt. I’d learned a long time ago that I wasn’t worth caring about—it had pretty much been pounded into my head—and I didn’t see the point in hoping it would change now. Jace was the only one who apparently hadn’t gotten the memo, and I loved her for that.

  “What are you thinkin’ about?”

  I stared at my ghostly reflection in the glass. Sometimes I felt like that—a ghost of a person drifting aimlessly through life with no true identity or history. “Can I see your wallet?”

  Marx gave me a puzzled look, but pulled the wallet from his back pocket and crossed the room to hand it to me. Wow, he must really trust me. I could just take his money and credit cards and bolt. It wasn’t like he was willing to shoot me to get them back.

  I pulled out his small, shiny driver’s license and studied it. “Why do you look so angry in this picture? Did someone cut you off when you were pulling into the parking lot?”

  He grunted in amusement. “No. You’re not supposed to smile.”

  “Oh, well . . . someone needs to teach those people how to properly take a photo. It looks like a mug shot.” I ran my thumb over the smooth surface of the card. Looking at his name and picture on the colorful card reminded me just how much I wanted one. Proof of existence. “I want this,” I declared, showing him the card. “Someday when we find out my name, and I don’t have to hide anymore, I want one of these with my name and picture on it.”

  Marx frowned. “You’ve never had any form of identification? Even before Collin?”

  “Just this.” I held up my wrist to show him my bracelet. “Nothing I could hold in my hands. Nothing with my picture on it.”

  “When you’re ready, I’ll teach you how to drive if you want. And we’ll get you an ID.”

  “Will you teach me how to yell at people through the windshield too?”

  He snorted. “You don’t need me to teach you that. The first night I met you, I thought you looked fragile sittin’ on that curb wrapped in a blanket. Then you told me you’d had worse days, shoved the blanket in my face, and yelled at me for accusin’ your friend of murder.”

  I smiled a little at the memory. “Well, you did overstep.”

  “I did not overstep. It was a good theory, and I wasn’t exactly wrong. You do know the killer; you just don’t remember him.”

  I slid the card back inside the sleeve and handed the wallet back to him. “I suppose that’s true. But you were pushy.”

  “That’s part of my job.” He walked to the corner and grabbed the flimsy wooden chair with an upholstered seat. He tipped it backwards and wedged it beneath the door handle so no one could enter my hotel room even if they had a key. “I assume it goes without sayin’, but don’t open the door for anybody.”

  I snapped my fingers in mock disappointment. “And I was gonna throw a wild party and invite the neighborhood.”

  “Cute,” he said, unamused. “And don’t stand by the window.”

  “Why?”

  “Just don’t,” he repeated without any additional explanation, which was infuriating. He gestured for me to leave the area.

  “But I like the window.”

  “No,” he said flatly. I frowned and took three small steps toward the bed. He frowned back, and I lifted my chin. I didn’t appreciate being told what to do, and I wasn’t willing to concede any more than that. He grumbled under his breath as he yanked the papery white curtain shut. “Stay away from the window, and if you hear a knock at either door, come get me. I’m gonna take a quick shower.”

  “Okay.”

  “You gonna be okay over here?”

  I glanced at the red door with its single lock and the chair tucked under the handle and nodded without meaning it. It didn’t strike me as secure. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for the hot chocolate.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He unlocked the doors that divided our rooms, and then disappeared to take a shower.

  The delicious aroma of chocolate and sugary marshmallows spread through the room as I prepared my hot chocolate. I walked back toward the bed and set it on the nightstand. I slid onto the mattress and stared at the red door. I wasn’t really sure what to do now. What did people do in hotels other than sleep?

  “Hey! You! Yeah, you!” a disembodied voice shouted.

  I jumped so abruptly that I fell off the edge of the bed and landed on the floor. It took me far too long to realize the voice shouting at me was coming from my bag. I stared at it, too stunned to move, as it continued to scream at me. “You have a phone call! Answer already!”

  I picked myself up off the floor—suddenly grateful no one was around to see my amazing leap of terror—and crawled back onto the bed. I stuck my hand into my bag and pulled out the hysterical phone.

  Jace’s name flashed across the display screen. I flipped it open and the screaming ceased. Oh, thank God. I didn’t think it would ever end.

  I pressed the phone to my ear and demanded, “What did you do to my phone? It’s possessed.” I had asked her to change my ringtone because I couldn’t figure it out, and the whistling tune wasn’t exactly a pleasant reminder after the incident in the park.

  “I gave it a personality,” Jace replied.

  “Well . . . it doesn’t need a personality. It’s a phone. How do I exorcise it?”

  She laughed. “Fine, sorry. I guess I should’ve chosen something less startling. I can try to talk you through it, or Mr. Southern can probably figure it out.”

  I sighed and folded my legs beneath me on the bed. I certainly wasn’t going to let her change it again. “So did you pick out a new door?”

  “Yep, it’s blue . . . like sapphire blue. Sam actually tracked it down. I don’t remember mentioning I like blue.”

  I smiled to myself. And he said he had it handled without my input. “Your couch is blue. Maybe he picked the door to match your couch?”

  There was a long pause. “You told him, didn’t you?”

  “What’s that saying . . . I can neither confirm nor deny . . . something, something . . . it’s not my fault?”

  Jace laughed again. “Nice. Wrong, but nice. He put it up for me and everything, which was unexpected.”

  “Shouldn’t Stanley have put it up?”

  “Yeah, about Stanley . . .” There was a beat of silence. “He . . . um . . . well, it looks like he sort of died from alcohol poisoning.”

  “Sort of? How does someone sort of die?”

  “Sort of as in . . . he did. And . . . oh, hey, I have to go. We ordered pizza. Be safe, okay? And call me tomorrow after your meeting.”

  “K bye.” I hung up and gave the possessed phone one last unhappy glare before tossing it aside. That ringtone had to be changed as soon as humanly possible. I spared a moment of regret for Stanley before dragging my notebook out of the bag and scooting back against the headboard to write my thank-you note to God.

  I bounced the pen off the page and tried to mentally collect the things I was grateful for today. My eyes strayed to the window when I saw something shift behind the thin white curtain.

  Alarm skittered through me. I knew it was foolish: it was a hotel and people would have to walk by the windows to reach their rooms. He couldn’t have followed us, not this far.

  I forced my attention back to my notebook and started writing.

  DEAR JESUS,

  I’m sorry I didn’t write last night. My brain fell asleep after all the chaos. I’m thankful that, despite the circumstances, nobody was hurt. I’m thankful for Sam, who’s keeping Jace safe, and for Marx. He’s sort of rugged and funny, and I want to trust him.

  I paused with my pen on the page and then added, Is he safe?

  I closed t
he notebook with a sigh, that last thought lingering. I was sharing an adjoining hotel room with a man I barely knew, and I needed him to be safe.

  I stiffened when something tapped against the window. What was going on out there? I stared at the curtains uneasily, and when the tapping sound came again, fear congealed in my stomach like a ball of ice.

  I slid off the bed and walked cautiously to the window a few feet away. I hooked a finger around the edge of the curtain and peeled it aside slowly. I yelped and dropped the curtain when something black thumped up against the glass.

  I stood there for a moment, trying to scrounge up the nerve to take another look. I crept forward and drew the curtain aside. A black cat stood on the sill, rubbing his head against the glass. I could’ve melted to the floor in relief. I had almost expected to see a face.

  I tapped the glass with my fingernail—I was so grateful to have those back—and the cat looked at me with bright golden eyes. He tried to rub his cheek against my finger and smacked face-first into the glass. Oh, maybe tapping to get his attention wasn’t the best idea.

  He made me miss my own cat. I hoped my fuzzy baby

  would be okay for two days without supervision. He had plenty of food and water.

  I peered at the parking lot to see if anyone was out there, and the brief idea to open the door and let the cat inside skittered through my brain before I squashed it. I wasn’t that stupid.

  “Sorry you’re stuck out there,” I muttered apologetically.

  The curious tapping resumed, and I stilled. I had thought it was just the cat, but he was casually licking his paws. I scanned the parking lot and sidewalk, but there was nothing but dark cars.

  “Holly,” Marx said sternly, and I jumped again. At least I was getting my aerobics in for the day. I hadn’t even heard the shower shut off. “Did I not tell you to stay away from the window?”

  I let the curtain drift back into place as I folded my arms and turned to look at him. “I heard something.”

  He tossed aside the towel he’d been using to dry his hair and walked to the window. He opened the curtain and searched the darkness. “What did you hear?”

  “Tapping.”

  His brows drew together. “Like that night at your apartment?”

  I nodded, and the carefully calm expression on his face confirmed my earlier fear. “He followed us, didn’t he?”

  Marx closed the curtain. “I figured he would. After all the trouble he’s gone to, he’s not just gonna let you slip away. This trip isn’t a part of his plans, and stalkers have no reservations about crossin’ state lines.”

  He drew his gun, and a fresh wave of fear shot through me. “You’re going out there? But what if . . . what if he’s outside the door?”

  He gave me a patient look. “Then I’m gonna shoot him.”

  I followed him back into his room. He peered through the peephole in his door as he said, “I’m leavin’ my key inside. If by chance he surprises me, I don’t want him to be able to let himself in. If I’m not back in five minutes, call the police and barricade yourself in the bathroom. Understood?”

  Images of Jacob dying on my floor flashed through my mind, and I didn’t want him to go outside. “Please don’t go.”

  “Holly,” he said gently. “I’m gonna be fine.” He opened the door and stepped outside. I locked it behind him and ran back to my room to grab my phone. I counted the seconds as I waited anxiously in front of the door.

  God, please don’t let him end up like Jacob.

  I stared at the unmoving door expectantly as the time hit the five-minute mark, but no one knocked. I didn’t even hear anyone outside. I decided to wait another minute and give him more time.

  Six minutes passed. Crap. I dialed the police with shaky fingers. I didn’t have the best history with the local police, and I didn’t trust them to help us, but there really was no other option.

  “9-1-1, what is your emergency?” the operator said.

  I described the situation to the best of my knowledge: Marx had gone into the night armed because I’d heard a strange tapping sound. The man on the other end of the line probably thought I was drunk.

  “There’s a man with a gun?” the operator asked.

  “He’s a New York City detective. His name is Richard Marx.”

  Eight minutes.

  “We’re dispatching a unit to your location now,” the man informed me. “Please stay on the line.”

  I hung up. I wasn’t going to answer any more of his questions, and staying on the line wouldn’t bring help any faster. I walked to the window and peeked outside. The night was perfectly still, but it shouldn’t be. If everything was fine, Marx would be back by now.

  Ten minutes.

  My eyes traveled to the bathroom door where he’d told me to hide, and then back to the window. If he was hurt, I didn’t want to just hide in the bathroom like a coward.

  I wrestled with whether or not to go outside and look for him. I knew he would be angry with me if I left the hotel room.

  If he’s still alive.

  That thought cemented my decision: I wasn’t hiding in the bathroom. I ran to fetch the kitchen knife from my bag and then returned. I peered through the peephole and, seeing no one on the other side, opened the door.

  I clung to the door frame with one hand as I stood in the doorway, afraid to leave the relative safety of the room for the unknown darkness outside.

  I glanced at my phone. Fifteen minutes.

  I sucked in a breath to call out to him and then thought better of it. If the killer was out here, then he would follow my voice right to where I stood. I stepped forward, and my fingers dropped from the door frame. This was stupid. I knew it was stupid.

  But Marx was important to me, even if I didn’t fully understand why. I crept into the parking lot with my knife gripped sideways in my fist.

  My hands trembled as I walked between two cars. I couldn’t see anything or anyone. I didn’t even realize I was passing Marx’s car until something shiny caught the light of the moon. I stepped back and leaned over the hood of the car to see the object on the windshield.

  A Polaroid picture was taped to the front window. I squinted to make out the image. It was of Marx and me on one of my “breaks” during the road trip. I was crouched down with my eyes shut as I tried to relax, and Marx was watching me as he leaned against the side of the car. There was a red X through his head, and written in capital letters beneath it were the words “She’s mine.”

  “Holly,” a voice hissed from behind me.

  I squeaked in fright and nearly leaped onto the hood of the car. I slashed blindly at the person behind me, but they caught my wrist and pulled me forward when I tried to scramble back.

  “Stop it,” the man growled in a low whisper. He held my wrist immobile, and the knife was useless. I tried to kick him and pull away at the same time, which really wasn’t very effective. “Holly, stop flailin’.”

  I stopped when a hint of his Southern accent bled through into the hoarse whisper. I gasped for breath as I twisted around to look into Marx’s shadowed face.

  “What are you doin’ out here?” he demanded as he plucked the knife from my hand.

  My voice carried a nervous tremor as I said, “You didn’t come back.”

  “Because I’m lookin’ for him.”

  “You said five minutes.”

  “I said call the police in five minutes if I wasn’t back,” he snapped. “Not wander around a dark parkin’ lot with a knife.”

  “I was worried.”

  He sighed angrily through gritted teeth. “Back to the room. Now.”

  A scraping sound pierced the quiet night—like boots on pavement—and Marx jerked me to the ground by my arm. I crouched beside him between the two cars, trying to breathe silently. I noticed that the front tire of his car was flat, then glanced over my shoulder at the rear tire. It was flat too. The killer had slashed them.

  “Don’t move,” Marx whispered, his tone leaving no
room for argument. I nodded, and he shook his head in exasperation, as if he expected me to do exactly the opposite. He crept around the car in a crouch and peered through the parking lot.

  Another quiet scrape of footsteps emanated from somewhere nearby. I remembered that sound from the first night I’d been followed back to my apartment. He’d probably wanted me to know I was being followed, just like he wanted us to know he was hunting us now. Marx looked back over his shoulder at me and motioned to the car. I blinked in confusion.

  “Under the car,” he whispered.

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to go under the car. Marx came back and crouched beside me. “I know you’re afraid of small spaces, but he’s in this parkin’ lot somewhere. He’s here for two reasons: to kill me and to take you back, but I expect he’ll be plenty satisfied if he just gets you. So get under the car.” I shook my head again. “Holly, don’t fight me on this. If I’m worried about you bein’ exposed out here, it makes it harder for me to protect myself.”

  I glanced at the car next to his. It was slightly higher off the ground, and if the killer looked under cars to find me, he would look under Marx’s car first. I sank to my stomach reluctantly and wiggled under the car. It was such a tight space, and I could feel the familiar anxiety blossoming in my chest, but I couldn’t crawl back out. I squeezed my eyes shut. A song I’d heard years ago popped into my mind, and if I weren’t so anxious I would’ve laughed at how appropriate it was.

  They paved paradise and put up a parking lot. With a pink hotel, a . . . a . . . something and a swinging hot spot . . . Something like that. I retraced the lyrics in my mind, trying to remember how the song went. As I concentrated, some of the anxiety ebbed. Trees in a tree museum.

  The sound of approaching sirens shattered my concentration, and I opened my eyes to see flashing lights igniting the darkness in the distance.

  Chapter 24

  THE OFFICER, WHOM I thankfully didn’t know, finished scribbling down Marx’s statement and then closed his little black notebook. “I’ll forward this information to one of the local detectives, and I’ll see that they get your card in case they have any more questions or anything comes up.” He stashed his notepad and pen in a pocket on his uniform and extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Detective.”