The Vanishing Year(67)
“Why would he come in the back? Does he do that?”
I bend over at the waist, trying to catch my breath. My legs feel like Jell-O from the adrenaline. “He never has before. It’s not Henry. Henry’s in Japan by now.”
I stand upright and dial Henry’s number. He picks up after one ring.
“Zoe? What’s the matter?”
I inhale, not expecting him to answer. I sag against the back wall of the elevator as the numbers light up: ten, nine, eight . . . “Henry? Someone is in our apartment. I don’t know who.” My voice comes out like a squeak.
Four . . . three . . . two . . . L . . . “Zoe? Are you okay? I’m in L.A. Should I come home?”
I don’t know what to say. He shouts into the phone, “Can you hear me? I’m coming home, okay?” I can barely hear him over the blood rushing in my ears.
The elevator doors slide open.
CHAPTER 21
The lobby is empty with the exception of Walter, the night doorman.
“Call the police, Walter,” I’m out of breath and spin in one direction, then the other, to find where the service stairs come out. I think of my apartment a week ago, a leveled wreck, all our belongings strewn across the floors and furniture. I think of the car. The whispered threat to Caroline. I realize with a sudden thud that none of this is accidental. It’s all a deliberate attempt to send me a message.
“Are you okay, Mrs. Whittaker?” His brows crease and he reaches a hand out for the telephone. I shake my head.
“I can’t stay here. Someone tried to break into my apartment. Just call them.” I run across the lobby, through the revolving doors, and into the street. The April air is still cool at night, despite the daytime heat wave, and the streets of New York are never quiet. Horns honk. People talk, shout, sing. There is always music. It’s a comfort, this never abating circus.
“Where to?” Cash huffs behind me, as breathless as I am. I jog west on Hubert Street, make a quick right on to Collister. Cash follows me, waiting to hear my grand plan. I have no grand plan. Stay alive, that’s my plan.
My mind is racing, what could anyone possibly want with me at this point? Revenge? The last time they came after me, they wanted to know where Rosie was. They thought I would tell them if they pushed me enough. This felt different, more final, less desperate. There was only one reason anyone would come back for me: revenge, pure and simple. There were only two people who would want that: Jared Pritchett and Mick Flannery.
I stopped in an alley to catch my breath.
“I don’t have a plan,” I say to Cash by way of explanation. “I don’t really have any place to go, but I have to call people. Officer Yates.”
“Let’s go to my apartment. We can call everyone there.”
I think of the floor picnic and the half-empty glasses of wine. What will Penny think when she finds that in the morning? Penny.
“I need to call Penny.” Then I realize that Cash has no idea who Penny is. “Okay, your apartment, let’s go.”
I follow him into the subway station at Canal Street. On the train, I scan up and down looking for anyone suspicious. Jared Pritchett is just a shadowy figure in my mind. Mick’s thick blond hair five years later could even be thinning by now. The zigzag purple scar on his cheek that curled along his hairline from where he’d almost lost an ear in prison. I can’t recall how I know that story. I was fourteen when he was away the first time for about a year. DUI, Evelyn had said. Not his first. His absence both freeing and hollow, the refrigerator devoid of beer, the ashtrays wiped clean and stacked in the kitchen cabinet, waiting for his inevitable return, thirteen months later. One day he was gone, the apartment sunny and cool, and the next he was back, the air thick with sweat. He wasn’t mean, not always. But his breath smelled like Sen-Sen, those red-and-gold packets stacked like playing cards under the quartz ashtray at the kitchen table, the curling smoke while he and Evelyn played gin rummy, her high-pitched giggle as the nights wore on. They were mostly happy, until they weren’t. I suppose that’s true for most everyone.
The R train stops at Union Square and we exit without incident. No Jared. No Mick. No one is following us. I’m back to checking over my shoulder again, the way I used to, looking for men with guns. The streets are strangely deserted. We walk the four avenue blocks to Cash’s apartment. Cash lives in a walk-up, a skinny flimsy building with no doorman. I eye the window, which looks easy to break, and the dead bolt, which looks barely operational.
He ducks his head, shyly, as we enter, and holds his arm out, by way of a tour. His apartment is sparse but small and clean, and his kitchen is an efficiency. The tile linoleum and white steel stove scream fifties, complete with Formica-topped table and red vinyl stools. The living room houses one small plaid love seat and a faux wood entertainment center that even has the back cut out and magnetic doors. A sheet divides the bedroom area from the living room. I can see the whole apartment from the vantage point right inside the door, which could fit in Henry’s master bathroom.
“It’s so cozy.” I mean that as a compliment, but I can tell by his face that he receives it as an insult.
“That’s what nice people say when they mean small.” He smirks.
“No! Genuinely. Most days I could lose my mind in Henry’s apartment.” It’s the first time I’ve ever said it that way, Henry’s apartment. It’s always been our apartment.