Follow Me(62)

Territory. As though we were warring nations rather than onetime lovers who had drifted apart. Christ, Aly could be so dramatic.

She met me at the coffee shop wearing white, something that irritated me for its connotations of purity. Aly was not the innocent one here, and I was about to tell her so when she opened her mouth and apologized.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking me straight in the eye. “I’ve thought about it, and I think I overreacted. I was surprised to see you, that’s all. After how we left things.”

And I smiled. How had I forgotten that while Aly could be theatrical and irrational, she was also quick to say she was sorry? I graciously accepted her apology and offered my own for not calling ahead, all the while hoping she would give me what I really wanted: a playbook to help ensure I didn’t make the same mistakes with Audrey, didn’t drive Audrey away like my family thought I did Aly.

But Aly had nothing to say she hadn’t said already, just one more chorus in the song of “it wasn’t meant to be.” Why had she called me then? To assuage her own guilt? What a self-serving waste of time.

Sitting across from me, she had smiled encouragingly, her too-pink lipstick clashing with her olive complexion. “You’ll find someone someday. I know you will.”

I bit my cheek hard enough to draw blood, and smiled at her while the inside of my mouth went copper. If only she knew.





CHAPTER FORTY-TWO





AUDREY


I sat straight up in bed, blinking my eyes in the dark as my heart thundered against my rib cage. What was that? I remained perfectly still, not even breathing as I listened for whatever had awakened me. Nothing. Carefully, I pushed myself out of bed and padded to the window. I lifted the edge of the curtain and looked out into the alley. It was empty. I exhaled, sagging with relief.

Maybe I’m just talking to myself again, I thought as I reached for my phone to check the Luna Listen app. Only after I had opened it did I realize I hadn’t set it. I was about to put down the phone when I noticed two unheard recordings from weeks ago, both from the same date: the day The Life and Death of Rosalind Rose opened. Between the thrill of finally sharing the dioramas with the public, the confrontation I’d had with Lawrence, and the unexpected visit from Nick, that day had been a whirlwind—I couldn’t imagine what kind of nonsense I would be mumbling about in my sleep.

Curious, I pressed “play.” The recording started with a muffled thud followed by a series of soft taps. Footsteps? I shuddered before I remembered that I was listening to a recording of the inside of my apartment. The footsteps had to belong to me. That’s new, I thought. No one’s ever accused me of sleepwalking.

But then I remembered swallowing a sleeping pill late that night, and also an article I’d once read listing some genuinely strange things people had done after taking sleeping pills: calling friends, eating, having sex, even driving. Apparently I was a sleepwalker when under the influence of sleeping pills. Who knew? I turned up the volume on my phone, wondering what else I might hear.

“Hi.”

My voice on the recording was so loud and clear I almost laughed. Most of the nocturnal chatter I’d captured with the Luna Listen app had been either sleepy murmurs or terrified shouts. This was a chipper, wide-awake greeting.

Then I heard something else, something that stripped the smile from my face. A shushing noise, possibly rustling of some sort? I rewound the recording and listened, trying to determine if it was more movement or perhaps just me in my sheets. I had to listen to it twice more before I realized what it was, and when I did, I dropped my phone in horror.

A voice, low and hushed, saying, “You’re dreaming.”

Someone had been in the apartment with me.

? ? ?

THERE WAS NO chance of sleep. With my sharpest knife—a beautiful, shiny butcher’s knife I’d purchased purely for the aesthetics and had used only once for a staged photo of slicing fresh veggies—clutched in my hand, I ripped apart my apartment, searching every nook, cranny, and possible hiding place. I pushed open the bathroom door and froze, my eyes fixed on a shadow on the shower curtain. Someone is in there. I nearly blacked out with fear, but gripped the knife and forced myself into action. With a primal yell and my arm poised and ready to stab the hell out of an intruder, I thrust the curtain aside to find the shower empty. I staggered out of the bathroom and collapsed in the beanbag chair, surveying the apartment.

There was no one there but me . . . at the moment.

You’re dreaming.

I felt like I’d been dipped in ice water. Who had been in my apartment? And what had they wanted? After hearing that muted voice, I forced myself to keep listening, terrified of what I might hear, but there was nothing else on that recording. The second recording, time-stamped just over an hour later, was brief and familiar: the same soft taps followed by the same muffled thud. As incomprehensible as it sounded, it seemed someone had come inside and watched me sleep.

But what kind of sicko would do something like that?

Ryan, I thought immediately. It had to be Ryan. I hadn’t seen any indication of a break-in, and no one else had access to the keys. There was no other . . .

Oh, I thought, suddenly remembering what had happened after Nick left. I’d heard the footsteps in the alley and had gone to explore. Exhausted and distracted, I must not have locked the door. I’d practically invited the intruder in. But what kind of intruder just came in to watch you sleep?