You Are Not Alone(13)

That’s exactly what Daphne started to do. She heard the toilet flush, then the sink faucet running—she flashed back to his strong-looking hands—then James reappeared.

She was halfway out the door. There was no way he could misread her signals.

James approached. She shuffled a bit to let him pass. Still with one foot in her apartment, and one in the hallway. But he paused right in front of her.

Now he was straddling the threshold, too.

James leaned down to kiss her again. She made the split-second decision to allow this; it seemed like the easiest way to get rid of him.

It felt almost as if she were kissing a different man; his lips were no longer tender, and he pressed his body against hers. She could smell the garlic from his gnocchi on his breath.

Her customer Kit had mentioned her husband recently reconnected with James. How well did they know him?

Daphne didn’t even know Kit all that well, she realized.

Daphne pulled away. “Thanks again.”

But he didn’t move.

The hallway was well lit, but her apartment was not. James’s face was half in the shadows, half in the light.

“Does it have to be over?”

Her heart began to pound, but she forced herself to smile. “I’ve got an early morning.”

Daphne saw something enter his eyes that made her instincts finally scream the warning they’d been whispering ever since James had asked to come upstairs.

“I’m just really tired.” Anxiety filled her voice. “But I’ll call you.”

“Sure you will.” He still didn’t move.

Adrenaline flooded her body. No one else was within view. The doorman was ten flights away. She prayed for the sound of the elevator ding, announcing that a neighbor was coming. But the hallway was still.

He kept staring at her, his face expressionless.

“So…” Her voice faltered. “It’s getting late.…”

The instant he stopped blocking the door, she’d slam it and quickly engage the dead bolt. She’d also phone Raymond to make sure James had really left the building.

After what seemed like an eternity, he finally lifted his foot and stepped into the hallway. But he didn’t turn his back to her. Instead, he edged sideways. Still, at least he was no longer in the threshold.

Daphne leaped back into her apartment and began to slam the door.

But his arm shot out and pushed it violently in the other direction while her palms were still on it. She tumbled backward, unsteady on her heels.

It was James who slid home the dead bolt.



* * *



In the days that followed, Daphne picked up the phone a half dozen times to call the police. But she always hung up before dialing.

She kept experiencing the sensation of James’s hands closing around her throat while she lay there, unmoving. His ugly words reverberated in her mind: I know you like it rough.

The only evidence she had was the faint bruise on her neck. She imagined a prosecutor asking, Did you tell him to stop?

It would be her word against his. Even her doorman likely saw them kissing, and definitely saw her leading him into the elevator. She knew the legal system had failed other women. She couldn’t trust that justice would prevail.

Late one night, she reached for her phone and sent James a text: I hope you rot in hell. Then she blocked him. It felt like such an inconsequential reaction, but she didn’t know what else to do.

She told no one at first. Daphne was an only child, and she wasn’t close to her parents, who’d had her later in life. They hadn’t been trying for a child and didn’t seem particularly pleased to be raising one, even a quiet, self-sufficient little girl.

She tried to lose herself in long, exhausting runs along the West Side Highway, and she began dropping weight. Food held little appeal. She couldn’t meet the eyes of Raymond whenever she passed through her lobby.

Then one day, a few weeks after the attack, a chime sounded in her boutique. Daphne had taken to locking up when she was alone and leaving a sign directing shoppers to press the doorbell.

It was a slow Tuesday afternoon on a slushy winter day, but somehow, none of the dirty gray snow or salt on the sidewalks marred the high leather boots of the two women who strolled in. Daphne had never seen them before, but she immediately guessed they were sisters.

“We’ve walked by your shop a million times and we’ve always wanted to stop in,” Cassandra gushed.

“I can already tell this place is going to be my new favorite addiction!” Jane said, running her fingertips over a stack of cashmere sweaters.

They’d stayed for nearly an hour, chatting easily as they tried on clothes and sipped from the flutes of champagne that Daphne brought out for good customers. They were much friendlier than most of the shoppers who passed through Daphne’s door; the sisters seemed truly interested in getting to know her.

By the time she was packing their purchases into glossy shopping bags, Daphne felt a little lighter, as if the presence of these warm, vibrant, strong women had somehow provided a barrier against the emotions battering her.

“We’ll be back soon, Daphne!” Jane promised as the sisters left.

And they were, a few days later.

A week or so after that, they’d invited Daphne to Jane’s apartment for drinks. It felt natural and spontaneous, like an extension of the drinks and conversation they’d shared in the boutique.