Follow Me(81)

So I was lonely without Cat around, sure, but as much as I hated to admit it, I missed Max. I missed eating home-cooked meals at his side while listening to his impressive record collection, and I missed nestling into the crook of his elbow and snacking on his brilliant concoction of Tabasco-dressed popcorn while we watched television. I missed the feel of his soft lips on mine, the way his mouth always tasted faintly of cinnamon. I missed him pressing his face into my hair and telling me I was beautiful.

But could I ever forgive him for keeping those photos a secret? How could he not have told me about them? And what kind of website had they been on? Something gross, he had said. I should have pressed him on that. When I first moved into the basement apartment, I hadn’t always remembered to draw my curtains before undressing—years of living far above the street had made me lax about such things—and what if this creep had seen? What if he had posted naked photos of me?

I shivered and wished desperately there was someone I could call. A side effect of only showing the best and most beautiful bits of my life to everyone meant that I felt like I couldn’t reveal my messier, more complicated emotions to anyone other than a trusted few. But I’d lost Izzy to Russell, Nick to his own hang-ups, and Cat to work, at least temporarily. The only other person I could think to call was Maggie, but I knew how that conversation would go: she would imply this was my fault for sharing too much online, and then she would start telling me about something adorable her children had done, and I would hang up the phone feeling vaguely envious, even though there was no way I would trade Maggie’s life for mine. Me as an accountant in Ohio with two children under the age of two? No thank you.

You’ll have Cat back soon enough, I told myself, stepping into her apartment. You can hold it together for a few more nights.

I was about to drop Cat’s extra set of keys on the front table when I heard footsteps. I froze, every nerve in my body signaling danger.

Was someone in Cat’s apartment? Had my stalker followed me here?

I dismissed the notion as ridiculous—besides, I was certain I had just unlocked the door, and Cat didn’t have a creepy Ryan with an extra set of keys. Unless . . . When Cat had come home the night before her trial, she hadn’t had her keys and had needed me let her in. She said she must have forgotten her keys back in her office, but what if she had dropped them along the way home? What if someone had found them and used them? Or . . . what if someone had stolen them from her purse?

Don’t be absurd, I thought. It’s most likely that Cat’s work thing ended early and she’s home.

“Cat?” I called.

There was no response. There was nothing at all. I relaxed, determining I must have imagined the earlier sound. I set down the keys and crossed to the kitchen. I was lowering the salad onto the counter when I heard another noise, a thump. I froze. Where did that come from? Was that inside the apartment?

“Cat?” I tried once more, my voice just a squeak now.

A floorboard creaked. Awash in panic, I thought, Someone is in the apartment.

I spun on a sneakered heel and raced out of the apartment, barely pausing to grab the keys off the table as I did so. I flew down the exterior stairs, my feet slipping on the wrought iron, and burst onto the sidewalk, fumbling with my phone. I was panting and must have looked totally wild because an elderly couple walking a Yorkshire terrier actually crossed the street to avoid me.

“Hello?” Cat answered.

“Where are you?”

“New York,” she said slowly. “Audrey, are you all right?”

“I just came home from Pilates and heard someone in your apartment.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I heard someone in your apartment. I thought it must have been you, but it’s obviously not,” I said, my voice rising with each syllable. “Jesus, Cat, do you think my stalker followed me to your place?”

“Stay calm,” she commanded. “Did you look through the apartment?”

“Hell no. I’m not trying to get murdered.”

“I just . . . Audrey, don’t panic. I’m sure it’s nothing. Just—”

I hung up on Cat and dialed 911. It wasn’t nothing. There was someone in that apartment, undoubtedly the same someone who had been in my apartment. Someone was after me.

? ? ?

THE TWO POLICE officers who responded to my call were both overweight, middle-aged men who obviously thought I was some hysterical girl, afraid of her own shadow. I went over the sounds I had heard once again, struggling to keep my voice calm, trying to force them to take me seriously, even though one of them was blatantly ogling me in my cropped exercise shirt and mesh-paneled leggings.

“I don’t know what to tell you, miss,” the one who was exhibiting a modicum of professionalism said. “There are no signs of a break-in. Nothing appears to be out of order.”

“But I heard something,” I insisted. “Footsteps. Creaking.”

“These old buildings can be funny,” he said kindly. “Maybe you heard the downstairs neighbors. You mentioned you’re staying here because of some problems with your apartment. Maybe you’re more on edge than usual.”

“Of course I’m on edge,” I said, frustrated. “Someone is stalking me. Wait, did I tell you about the pho—”

“There’s no evidence of an intruder,” the other one interrupted, tearing his eyes away from my chest. “The door wasn’t forced open, and we found no open windows. I don’t believe anyone was there.”