One of Those Faces (39)

I summoned what little strength I had and patted down my jacket until I felt something hard in the pocket. My fingers dug through the fabric before closing around something smooth and cold. I pulled out a lighter, my heart beating faster. I turned it over in my palms.

J. L.

The letters were etched in cursive script on one side of the frosted pink metal.

The lights flickered off before plunging the car into complete darkness. I clenched my fists and set them on my knee, the lighter scraping the cut on my palm. My body tightened and grew cold. I fumbled for my jacket and slipped it back on, the wet fabric weighing my arms down.

Metallic creaking resounded in the adjacent car. It sounded like the scraping that night in the alley.

It’s fine. It must be routine maintenance.

I licked my lips and tried to swallow, but my mouth had dried from the alcohol. The creaks sounded closer now. My whole body tensed.

The lights flickered back on, and I exhaled, unclenching my fists, shoving the lighter back into my pocket. The train still didn’t move.

I looked into the next car on my left, and my heart skipped a beat. Through the dirty window on the connecting door, a tall figure stood facing toward me from the back of the other car. The filth on the glass and the distance obscured any features.

I gripped the pole closest to me and got to my feet. The figure stepped closer, and I stumbled backward until I was against the door to the adjoining car. Still staring at the figure approaching from the other side, I turned the handle behind me, and my foot slipped in between the cars. I gasped and reached across to open the other door. Without turning back around, I jumped into the next car as I heard the thunder of footsteps behind me. The door closed, and I sprinted across the car to the next door, the footsteps following distantly. Like heavy boots.

The train jolted back to life as I jumped into the next car and I fell to my knees, one foot dangling above the track. I grabbed my stinging knees and gripped the seat to steady myself as I stood.

“Damen Station,” the automated voice announced as we slowed.

I whipped my head to look at the car behind me now. It appeared empty.

The train stopped completely, and the doors opened with a wheeze onto the platform. I stood on the edge and peered outside the doors. The platform was empty. I stepped out of the train, turning to either side, bracing for the footsteps to follow.

The doors closed behind me, and the train blew past. All the cars were empty.

Where’s your bag?

I felt the bulk of my keys in my jeans pocket, but my bag was gone. I kicked the concrete with the tip of my shoe, and immediately my knee throbbed. My phone and everything else, gone. I must’ve left it behind while running away from my imaginary follower. I rubbed my eyes with my fingers.

You’re going insane.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


She stands in the dark, peering in through my apartment window. Her eyes are black and hollow craters, and her lips are decayed and withering.

My eyes opened and recoiled in the daylight, my limbs still tethered to the bed, crushing pain across my chest. My gaze rolled down to the window. A dark mass stood beyond my blinds. I was still weighed down to the bed, my arms frozen in sleep. The rest of my body was awake, the panic quickening my heart until the sound of its beating in my ears reached a deafening crescendo.

I took a breath and bent one of my fingers, sensation returning to my hand and then to my arms. I sat up, my eyes still trained on my window. The blinds were mostly closed, but it was real. There was a dark mass standing barely out of view, the early-morning sky backlighting the figure. I jolted as a booming knock rattled the door.

The sound reverberated through my head. I glanced over at the clock.

7:15 a.m. I had probably passed out as soon as I’d gotten in from the train.

The train.

That person in the dark. Was it real?

Where’s your bag?

I glanced around the room. No bag in sight.

Another violent knock sounded through the apartment as I clutched my temples. I looked back at the door and jumped to my feet. I had left the door unlocked. I tiptoed to the door and gingerly rested my hand on the lock.

There was no way I could lock it without making a noise. I peered through the peephole and sighed.

I turned the knob and swung the door open, my eyes narrowing against the sunlight. “Yes?” I asked, squinting up at the detective. My mouth was like cotton balls.

Wilder had his hand on his back pocket, and his features were scrunched into the center of his face. “You’re okay?”

I stared at him, blinking. “What?” My brain was still swimming with the gin from last night.

He relaxed his shoulders and face, but his eyebrows remained furrowed, a large wrinkle crease between them. “I saw you called my office late last night, and then you didn’t answer your phone.”

He surveyed me, and I was suddenly aware that my wrinkled tank top from the night before was twisted over my torso, exposing one shoulder, and I was still wearing my jeans, but one pant leg was pushed above my ankle. “Can I come in?” he asked, peering behind me.

I probably looked like I’d been attacked. I nodded and opened the door behind me. Surely he’d seen worse than my messy apartment.

He stepped in and immediately took in everything with a sharp gaze, from the pillows and blanket I had thrown to the floor to Woodstock sitting on my drafting table.