Follow Me(65)

“Really?” I asked hopefully. “You think that’s my voice?”

“I don’t know. It’s really hard to tell if it’s even a voice at all.” She frowned. “Do you remember waking up last night?”

“This isn’t from last night,” I clarified. “This is from a couple of weeks ago. The day the Rosalind exhibit opened, actually. I was so wired that night that I took a sleeping pill, which is why I didn’t notice this recording right away. I hadn’t even realized I’d turned on the app.”

“Oh,” Cat said slowly. “That was the night you heard someone in the alley, right? And saw the box that had the headless flowers in it?”

I nodded grimly. “Exactly. Do you think it was all the same guy? Whoever was in the alley and left those flowers later came back and came inside? I just don’t get why he would leave the flowers outside if he could come inside.”

“Maybe he didn’t know he could get inside when he left the flowers,” Cat suggested. “Or maybe he didn’t want you to know he was inside. Or maybe it’s not the same person at all.”

“Or maybe you were right and the voice is me, and the flowers are just a weird coincidence.”

“I don’t know,” Cat said doubtfully. “When I said it might be you, I didn’t know what day we were talking about. It would have to be a pretty big coincidence for all this to happen on the same night and not be related.”

“Stranger things have happened. Besides, you’re not the only one who thought it was me. Nick thought so, too.”

“You played this for Nick?” Cat asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Yeah, this morning.”

“This morning?” she repeated sharply.

“Get your mind out of the gutter. Nick met me before work to listen to this. I . . .” I stalled, not wanting to admit to Cat that I had been on the verge of accusing Nick. “. . . I wanted his opinion.”

“Wait,” Cat said, pursing her lips. “The night of this recording. The night before you found those flowers. Wasn’t that also the night that you sent Nick away?”

I nodded reluctantly. “I know what you’re thinking, and I’ve already thought of that. But it wasn’t Nick. He flat-out denied it.”

“Audrey, this is the guy who lied to you about denting your car’s fender right after you watched him do it. He would hardly admit to breaking into your bedroom at night.”

“That was one time almost ten years ago, and totally different. Besides, Cat, you don’t know him like I do. I can tell when he’s lying, and I’m sure he was telling the truth.”

“All right,” Cat said uncertainly. “But maybe you should stay with me for a while.”

? ? ?

IT WAS SWEET of Cat to invite me to stay with her, but there had been a hesitation in her voice that told me the offer wasn’t entirely sincere. I was sure it had to do with work—I knew something big was going on, and all conversations with her gradually morphed into discussions about how stressed she was, how many cases she had to read or pages she had to write, and whether I thought it meant something that Connor had brought her a cup of coffee while they’d been working. I didn’t want to add to her pressure—and I didn’t exactly relish the idea of sitting alone in her apartment while she worked late. I needed to get out, to do something, anything that would take my mind off that recording.

Luckily, I knew just who to call.

? ? ?

MAX WAS WAITING for me at the bar at the Dabney, where he’d somehow managed to score last-minute reservations, looking slightly rumpled and wearing those god-awful Vans. Fashion ineptitude aside, my heart cartwheeled when he directed those warm brown eyes toward me and smiled, showing off his dimples. A comb, an iron, and decent footwear, I thought to myself. That’s all he needs.

“Audrey,” he said, kissing my cheek lightly. “I’m so glad you called.”

“I would have called sooner if I knew you had these reservations in your pocket,” I quipped. “I’ve been dying to try this place.”

“There was a cancellation,” he said with a shrug. “I just got lucky.”

If I had been with Nick, I would have said We’ll see about that, and he would have winked, and then he would have been putting his hands on my knees under the table. It would have been hot, but somehow there was something almost hotter about this: standing across from this man and feeling the attraction buzzing between us, wanting to touch him but not doing it; the uncertainty and anticipation of what might happen when we left the restaurant.

I rocked forward on my tiptoes to return the kiss, my lips lingering on his cheek as I inhaled the clean scent of his aftershave. “I think I’m the lucky one.”

? ? ?

OVER SHARED PLATES of fire-roasted peppers and charred romaine salad, Max and I talked nonstop about our respective jobs, the incredible food, the people on a clearly terrible first date next to us, something he’d read in the Post about track work on the Metro—everything other than the one thing that I couldn’t get off my mind.

You’re dreaming.

Was it possible that it was just me? I couldn’t say; I’d never heard myself whisper like that. Then again, I’d never heard myself talk so plainly in my sleep. Everything I otherwise caught had been shouts and yelps.