One of Those Faces (7)

His yellow eyes narrowed at me. I glanced at the pile of his untouched toys in the corner of the room. Like all cat owners, I had gone through phases of saving up and buying really nice toys for Woodstock, and he’d never played with any of them.

I examined the foot. I could convince myself that the stickiness was Woodstock’s drool, which wasn’t ideal but better than whatever else it could be. I let it fall back to the floor, and he immediately accepted it into grateful paws before kicking it under the bed and disappearing.

I rubbed my eyes and crouched by the window, carefully lifting the shades up. The street was empty, the lone wail of a single siren trilling to the west. I stared at that dark alley. The only light nearby came from the floodlight of the detached garage on one side, but it was turned the opposite way, shooting directly into the street. I let the blinds fall back into place.

It was nothing. Surely if something had happened last night, I wouldn’t have been the only one of my neighbors to hear it.

After approaching my drafting table nestled in the corner, I sank into the rolling chair. The latest project I was working on was for a children’s book about a mouse and his family trying to escape the clutches of an evil cat. It wasn’t a very original idea for a book, but it was a job. I grabbed the remote control and directed it over my shoulder to turn on the TV. The familiar piano theme from The Office blared throughout the room. The late-night talk shows had wrapped up hours ago. It was the rerun phase of night. I had learned to measure time by the late-night television schedule. The infomercials would be on next.

I fanned out the drawings I had finished so far for the book. The evil cat, Harold, was modeled after Woodstock. A lazy choice, maybe, but he did look like the type of cat that a Bond villain might have. He had been a stray when I’d found him and even had a mysterious scar running above one eye, so it seemed fitting.

I chose the most incomplete painting from the middle and stacked the others back against the wall. If I couldn’t sleep, I could at least get some work done. I pulled a broad, fat paintbrush from the mason jar with the others and wet it.



I awoke to constant electronic pinging and my hand dangling over the water jar. I blinked my eyes and realized I was facedown on my painting, staring at the illustrated cat. The paper was still wet. I jerked my head up and winced at the crick in my neck.

My phone pinged again two, three times in a row. I picked it up.

8:50 a.m.

The texts from Erin kept coming in.

Erin (8:01 a.m.): Oh my god!

Erin (8:12 a.m.): Are you okay?

Erin (8:21 a.m.): Why aren’t you answering?

Erin (8:23 a.m.): Call me ASAP!

Erin (8:25 a.m.): you’re freaking me out.

Erin (8:45 a.m.): just let me know you’re okay!

And then five missed calls.

I pressed the missed-call notification and dialed.

“Oh, thank god! Are you okay? Where have you been?” Erin demanded, each syllable growing shriller.

I cleared my throat, massaging my neck back into place. “I was sleeping. What’s going on?” I rasped. I put the phone on speaker and carried it with me to the kitchen. My eyes still half-closed, I fumbled for my coffee mug on the counter.

“A girl was murdered right across the street from your place last night!” Her screech filled the apartment. “It was on the news when I got up! When you didn’t answer, I-I freaked out!”

Leaving my phone on the counter, I stumbled over to the window by the front door and lifted the blinds. Across the street, several officers were at work in the alley, nosy passersby glancing over their shoulders as they walked.

“I’m already on my way over!” Erin continued, the hysteria in her voice dying down a little. “Since you’re not dead, let’s go get coffee.”

Some of the officers were bent over and looking at the toppled garbage cans lying askew on the asphalt between the two garages. Two others were talking with the owner of the house next to the alley.

“No, I can’t,” I croaked. “I have to work. I’ll see you at the studio.”

“Jesus,” Erin breathed after taking a pause. “I seriously almost had a heart attack! I can’t believe I let you walk alone last night. That could’ve been you!”

“I have to go. See you tonight,” I said, squinting through the smudges on the window. The police were gathered around one particular trash can lid.

I hung up and pulled a black hoodie over my faded Charlie Brown T-shirt and tugged it down until it covered the waistband of my yoga pants. I tossed my phone onto the table and slid into the sandals by the door, keeping one eye out the window at the gathering crowd.

Heads turned as I clattered down the staircase and across the street to join the fray, the bottoms of my shoes slapping loudly against my feet. Too short to see over almost everyone, I shifted my weight to glance over a couple of shoulders and into the alley. There wasn’t a body, at least not anymore. But there were a couple of gloved cops.

The metallic echo of last night reverberated through my mind.

You could have helped her.





CHAPTER FOUR


Erin’s paranoia had mostly dissipated by the time I entered the studio for my next class.

“How are you not more freaked out by this?” she asked as we set the last supplies out on the tables. She had finally finished recounting the full story about the murder after I’d told her I hadn’t watched the news.