Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(38)

Maybe she should mention it to the maintenance guy while he’s here . . .

But then, he’s the reason she’s locking the door.

Forget it. She lives alone; she’ll never have any reason to use the lock after this. The sooner that guy gets out of here, the better.

She quickly sheds her T-shirt and jeans, changing into another T-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. After running a brush through her hair and shoving her feet into a pair of sneakers, she grabs her shoulder bag and hurries over to the bedroom door. Throwing it open, she finds herself face-to-face with the maintenance man.

Marianne lets out a little scream. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, Marianne.”

“What are you doing?” she repeats.

“I’m finished. I fixed it for you.”

“Good. Great. I told you to go ahead and let yourself out when you were done.”

“Oh.”

He doesn’t move. Obviously, he wants something.

Her heart is racing. What if . . . ?

Oh! A tip. That must be it. For a second there, she almost thought he was going to make a pass at her.

She reaches into her bag, fishes a couple of dollars from her wallet, holds them out to him. “Here,” she says. “Thank you.”

“What is that?”

“It’s a tip.” Isn’t that what you were waiting for?

He looks at it, then at her, bewildered.

What the . . . ?

“Thank you,” he says after a moment, taking the money and putting it into his pocket. But he continues to stand there.

“Look, I really have to go.”

“Do you like music?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you like music?” He’s fumbling with his Walkman. He pops the cover, ejects the CD, and holds it out to her. “Here.”

“What is it?”

“Music. Here.”

She starts to shake her head, but he’s thrust the CD into her hand. “You’ll like it. It’s good.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want you to have it. Okay?”

“But—”

“It’s a present. From me.”

She forces a smile. “That’s very sweet . . .” His name . . . what’s his name?

He knows yours.

Yes, and that troubles her.

“Cake,” he blurts. “Do you like cake?”

“I don’t know what you mean . . .”

“I want to have cake with you.”

It’s not a sly euphemism—not with this guy—but he is making a pass. Clumsily, and she doesn’t want to hurt him.

“That’s sweet, but . . .” She gives a little shake of her head. Ordinarily, she would just hint that she’s not interested in men, but she’s not sure he’d even grasp that concept.

“Or something else,” he goes on in a rush. “It doesn’t have to be cake. What do you like? I like hot chocolate. Do you?”

“I . . . I don’t . . .”

“What do you like?” he asks again. Demands, really, and not only is she running out of patience, but he’s setting her nerves on edge.

She glances instinctively at the apartment beyond his massive shoulders. Still not entirely familiar with the layout and traffic pattern, she wonders if she could make a break for it if she had to get away from him.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, “I really have to go now. My mother is waiting, and worrying . . .”

“Why?”

Oh geez. “I told you—she worries. I have to go.”

“Wait . . .”

Please let me go. Maybe her trepidation is off-base, but she can’t help feeling vaguely threatened.

“Do you want to go out on a date, Marianne? Please?”

She takes a deep breath. As gently as possible, she tells him, “No. I . . . can’t.”

He just looks at her, and the pain in his gray eyes makes her more sad than anxious.

“Please . . . ?” he asks in a small, pitiful voice.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just—”

He turns abruptly and bolts before she can attempt the explanation he wouldn’t have understood anyway. She watches him open the door and disappear into the hall. She can hear his footsteps fading away.

Shaken, she goes over to close the door, and the footsteps stop abruptly. Realizing he’s somewhere down the hall, she closes the door and dead-bolts it.

She’s not going anywhere right now. No way. Not with him lurking out there.

Conscious of Mack’s eyes on her as he sticks his feet into his shoes, Allison dials Kristina’s number again. This time—having spent the afternoon breathing the stench of death in the midst of all those grieving New Yorkers—she doesn’t really expect an answer.

Hearing a click on the other end of the line, though, she has a moment of false hope—then realizes it’s a recorded voice.

“Hi, you’ve reached Kristina. Leave a message and I’ll get right back to you.”

“Hey, are you there? It’s Allison, from downstairs. Call me when you get this.” She hangs up the phone.

“Maybe she’s screening,” Mack suggests.