The Herd(10)

I shrugged. “When we were designing the space, I pointed out that studies show that women are less productive and feel less comfortable in offices with security cameras. Especially with this kind of clientele—what if somebody hacked in and got footage of, like, Myla Robin spilling a pitaya bowl on herself?”

“What the hell is a pitaya bowl?”

“Oh, Katie. You’ve missed so much.” I patted her shoulder.

“They had to be studying coed workplaces, though, right? The researchers.” She stepped over a cigarette butt. “Even if the study was about women feeling, you know, under a microscope, I doubt it applies to the Herd. It’s one place where you’re free from the male gaze.”

“But I think it’s conditioned—an automatic response to being watched all our lives,” I said. “Anyway, it wasn’t my hill to die on. I just thought it seemed relevant, and then later Eleanor decided that the only camera they were installing would be the one in the elevator.”

A motorcycle came tearing around the corner, and Katie jumped.

“You okay?” I slid my arm across her shoulders. “What is it—sensory overload after Kalamazoo?”

She turned to me slowly, then swung her head away. “I’m fine.”



* * *



—

We were almost back to my apartment, our footfalls synchronized, when Katie dug in her pocket and pulled out her phone. I took a couple more steps before I noticed she wasn’t next to me, then turned and saw her frozen on the sidewalk, brow furrowed.

“What’s up?” I called.

Her eyes slid over the screen a few more times before she looked up. “It’s nothing. Hey, I’m gonna—”

We both saw it, a yellow cab approaching with its roof light on. She stuck an arm out—confidently, I thought, like a seasoned New Yorker—and it wheezed to a stop.

“I’ll see you tomorrow!” she cried, pressing me into a quick hug and then scuttling into the back. I watched through the window to see if she’d wave, but her eyes were back on her cell.



* * *



—

My own phone buzzed as I reached my front door, and I pulled it out to see a text from Katie: “Left my laptop at your apt. Can you bring it to herd tomorrow?”

Katie was always forgetting her things. Not losing them, per se, because she always got them back—luck followed her like a scent. She texted again: “Sorry I took off so suddenly. xo”

I noticed all at once how cold my nose and fingertips had grown, and I fished for my keys in my purse.

“Hi, Hana!” the doorman called as I passed. “Slow down, you have a package!”

“Great, thanks!” I skidded to a stop at his desk. He’d mumbled when he introduced himself months ago, and I’d said pardon? twice but still couldn’t catch it, and now I can never ask. He has an unfair advantage; every time I pick up a delivery, he gets a glimpse of my name on the address label, the woman in 4C.

I checked Instagram as he fumbled in the package room and saw that Katie had posted a photo from Mocktails: her, Mikki, and Eleanor, holding up drinks topped with flowers and cherries and tiny paper umbrellas. The old insecurity blared on: how perfect they all looked together, how strangers sometimes asked if they were sisters. Katie had grown close with them the very moment I left for the West Coast in 2010, and though that was my call, though I’d encouraged them all to hang out without me, though earlier today Eleanor was considering not letting Katie into the Herd—I felt a pinprick of fear that they would replace me now that she was back.

My phone pulsed in my palm as I rode the elevator. A FaceTime—no video, just audio—from Eleanor. What?

“Hello?” I asked, but the elevator was like a tomb, reducing her voice to staticky clicks. I pawed at the Call Back button as I plodded down the hall.

“Hana?” she said, and I paused in front of my door. Her voice sounded strange—pinched, almost.

“I’m here. What’s up?”

“Can you come to my apartment?”

I froze, my key in midair. “Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Is everything okay?”

The phone line sizzled for two seconds, three. “Just get here.”

Two beeps, and she was gone.





CHAPTER 3





Katie


MONDAY, DECEMBER 9, 9:36 P.M.

There were three keys on the fob Samantha, my new roommate, had given me—one for the deadbolt, one for the door, and one I kept meaning to ask her about—and this evening, none of them fit. I futzed and fumbled, jabbing at the keyhole like an awkward teen during his first sexual encounter, until finally the door clicked open. Then I froze, the text replaying in my mind, before pushing it open.

I’m at your apartment. I’m not leaving until we talk.

I stepped inside, holding my breath, and then exhaled when I spotted Samantha washing dishes in the sink. Maybe she’d left.

“Hi!” a voice called from the living room. I swung my head and spotted my literary agent on the couch, her fingers wrapped around her phone.

“Hey, Erin,” I said as casually as possible.

I dropped my keys on the counter and fucking Samantha finally looked up from the rushing faucet and grinned. “Katie, your friend’s here!”