Follow Me(32)

“Oh, he did tell me he gave you a fright the other week,” she said apologetically. “He didn’t mean to scare you. You see, he heard some strange noises coming from your apartment, and he thought he should check on you. A young woman like you, living alone . . . he just wanted to make sure you weren’t in trouble.”

I bit my tongue instead of telling Leanne that I, a young woman living alone, was fully capable of protecting myself and didn’t need her twitchy, drug-addled grandson to be my knight in shining armor. Saying it would have felt therapeutic, but it would have only distracted from my point, which was that there was no reason for Ryan to be in my apartment, the other week or that night or any other night.

“Leanne, there were no strange noises that night. I was sitting alone in my room, not making a sound. I didn’t even have any music on. There was nothing he could have heard that would have made him think I was in danger, nothing that would have made it reasonable for him to come inside without my permission.”

“Well, maybe he heard something outside. All I know is he rang your doorbell, and you didn’t answer. So he wanted to—”

“Rob me,” I interrupted. “He wanted to rob me.”

Leanne let out a small gasp. Her voice hardened as she said, “That’s a serious accusation.”

“I know,” I said, adding steel to my voice to match hers. “And I’m not making it lightly. Ryan didn’t come into my apartment that night because he heard noises; he came in because he heard no noises. He thought I was out, and thought my not answering the buzzer confirmed it. He thought he could walk in and help himself to whatever he wanted.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“I’m sorry, but it is. I came home tonight to find Ryan in my apartment, his pockets stuffed with my jewelry, cash, and medicine. He was robbing me, Leanne, and I caught him in the act.”

“Are you sure?” she asked faintly. “Maybe there was a misunderstanding . . .”

“I get this is hard for you,” I said sympathetically. “I do. But I’m your tenant, and you have responsibilities to me. I need the locks changed immediately—all three on the door and the one on the gate.”

“Oh, I don’t think all that’s necessary. I’ll just talk to Ryan, and—”

“My lawyer thinks it’s necessary,” I broke in, sending off a mental apology to Cat for dragging her into this without her consent. “Unless you’d rather discuss this with her?”

“No, no,” she said quickly. “There’s no need to involve lawyers. I’ll have the locks changed first thing tomorrow. Ryan won’t bother you again.”

? ? ?

LEANNE SPOKE TOO soon.

Shortly after two in the morning, my buzzer rang. Startled awake, I vowed to ask Leanne to replace that thing when she changed the locks. No doorbell should sound like a crow being electrocuted. As it continued shrieking, I dragged myself out of bed to investigate.

I pulled open the door and nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw Ryan on the other side of my gate, face twisted and leaning maliciously on the buzzer. Without letting go of it, he growled, “You said you wouldn’t call her, bitch.”

I shrank back in momentary fear before I gathered myself. I wasn’t afraid of some moron who smoked sage, for God’s sake. What could he really do to me while I was behind a locked iron gate, anyway? Annoy me to death?

“I never promised that,” I shot back. “Now get your filthy hand off my buzzer and get lost.”

Ryan lunged suddenly, rattling the bars of the gate like a gorilla at the zoo. I recoiled, heart thundering in my chest, and wondered whether I had miscalculated the potential for danger. How strong was that gate really? And what might he do once I was no longer behind it?

My mind flashed back to a night in college: me, screaming at some incredibly large, exceedingly drunk guy who had grabbed my ass while I waited at the bar, and Nick, holding me back and saying sharply in my ear, Audrey, goddammit, someday you’re going to get yourself killed.

I shivered.

Still clutching the bars, Ryan pressed his face against the gate so his bloodshot eyes and snarling mouth bulged like some nightmarish gargoyle. He barked once, then smacked chapped lips together in an exaggerated kiss and said, “Sweet dreams, Audrey.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE





AUDREY


I scrutinized the image I was about to post—a close-up of Rosalind’s dreamy doll face as she gazed out the window of her Los Angeles apartment, her golden hair pinned up in miniature curlers—and then, satisfied, uploaded it to the museum’s Instagram feed. The opening of The Life and Death of Rosalind Rose was still a month away, but I had been stoking interest by sharing one carefully cropped image each week. The tactic was working—the posts got tons of engagement.

I knew people were genuinely excited about the art—as they should be!—but I personally thought the series was doing so well because of the images I had curated. Before I posted a single photo, I’d spent hours thinking about how to frame the exhibit. It didn’t lack for shock value—between the inspiration by a real murder and the rumor that Irina Venn had painted the scenes with actual human blood, there was plenty to scandalize the audience—but I’d chosen to focus on Rosalind’s humanity. When I looked at the dioramas, the doll herself was what grabbed me, the rawness of the emotions etched on her tiny face. Rosalind was the star of the show, and I wanted our followers to connect with her just as I had.