Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Ruby

Nighttime is the worst. I’m most vulnerable when I’m asleep, so I keep the lights on in the kitchen and living room of my apartment all night long so that it looks like someone’s awake and alert. I keep the TV on all night, too, with the volume turned down low. It gives me some comfort knowing that, while I’m sleeping, my apartment is watching out for me, discouraging intruders. Keeping me safe.

I’m lying in bed watching TikTok, trying to pass time until I feel sleepy. It’s taking me a good long while to fall asleep tonight because I had a bad day.

He was here today.

I heard him outside my apartment door this evening. I heard him tapping on my door and then scraping his nails down the plain wooden barrier that exists between me and the outside world. I could practically feel him staring at me. I didn’t bother to look out the peephole because he knows to stay just out of sight.

Pumpkin, my one-year-old orange tabby, jumps up onto the bed and kneads the blanket with his claws a moment before lying down beside me. As usual, he presses up against my body. Even though he purrs loud enough to wake the dead, his nearness is comforting. It means I’m not completely alone in the world. I’m still getting used to living alone. I moved out of my dad’s house just two years ago, when I graduated from University of Chicago. I’m still getting the hang of trying to adult on my own.

I already took my melatonin tonight to help me sleep, but my mind still races. A doctor once offered to prescribe me sleeping pills—something far more powerful—but I declined. I don’t want to take anything stronger because I’m afraid I won’t hear him if he should finally manage to get inside my apartment while I’m asleep.

Day and night, I have to be vigilant.

It’s windy tonight—not surprising as they call Chicago The Windy City. My old single-pane bedroom window is rattling, which is unnerving. My apartment building was constructed in the 1940s, and it’s a bit drafty, especially up here on the second floor. My unit is located along the back of the building, so my windows and wooden balcony overlook the resident parking lot in the rear, as well as the small park beyond. I’ve never been to the little park, but I often open my window so I can hear the children playing there.

I yawn.

My body is tired, but my mind can’t relax.

He could be out there right now, in the hallway, waiting for me to let down my guard. Waiting for his chance to strike.

Pumpkin stretches out beside me. When I reach down to scratch his ears, the purring intensifies. His warm weight feels good against my hip.

He’s my little buddy. He’s all I’ve got. I thought about getting a dog once, thinking he would make a good deterrent, but I quickly dismissed the idea because dogs need to go outside to do their business. I don’t go outside. Ever. I can’t very well walk a dog, but I can take care of a cat. I even found a vet who makes house calls for homebound clients.

Homebound. That’s me. I haven’t stepped foot outside my apartment in two years, not since I moved out of my father’s house in Lincoln Park and into a place of my own. My dad told me I was crazy for thinking I could live on my own. Maybe he’s right, but it was something I needed to do. Living with him had become too painful.

Thinking about my father is depressing. We had such a good relationship at one time—that was until my mother passed away when I was eight. It was like a switch got flipped—shortly after her death, my father’s demeanor toward me changed almost overnight, to the point he openly showed his contempt for me. Even as a child, I could see it—feel it. I wondered even then if he blamed me for my mom’s death. For her murder.

Today, our relationship is more strained than ever. He thinks I’m imagining the stalker who terrorizes me. He says it’s all in my head—that I’m crazy. That I’m paranoid.

But I’m not.

He is out there—maybe even right this second—watching and waiting.

Just as I’m about to drift off, I hear a thump when something heavy strikes my apartment door. Pumpkin flies off the bed and hides underneath. I flinch violently, and now I’m wide awake again, my heart pounding. Adrenalin floods my body, and I find it difficult to breathe.

I pull my blankets up around my neck and roll onto my side, facing away from the bedroom door and clutching the spare pillow beside me for comfort. I don’t dare go look. That can wait until morning. Whatever it is, I just hope it doesn’t leave a blood stain on the door mat. I’ve already had to replace three of them.

* * *

The next morning, I’m awakened early by a panic attack. My pulse is hammering because I know I’m going to find something horrible outside my apartment door. I’ve learned from experience that it’s best to take care of these things right away. Otherwise, the smell—and sometimes the mess—gets worse.

After a quick stop in the bathroom to pee, I brush my hair and put it up in a ponytail to keep it safely out of my face during the extraction procedure. I grab a pair of disposable gloves and an extra-duty garbage bag from beneath the sink and head to the living room.

Armed with everything I need, I slowly approach my door. I unlock the first deadbolt, then the second one, and then the third. With the chain lock still in place, I open the door a crack, just enough that I can see outside. Sure enough, there’s a plastic grocery bag on my welcome mat. I’m afraid I know what’s in it.

I release the chain lock, open the door just enough that I can stick my head out and check the hallways. I don’t see anyone, thank goodness. It’s still early, and most of my neighbors haven’t left for work yet.

I gingerly pick up one of the bag handles and peer inside as what looks like a dead squirrel, flattened and shriveled up. Roadkill. It’s been dead a long time, which is good as there hopefully won’t be any bodily fluids leaking out.

Kneeling, I grab the grocery bag by one of its handles and carefully lower it into the trash bag. Then I remove my gloves, drop them into the bag, too, and quickly tie a knot. I leave the trash bag on my welcome mat for my neighbor, Darren, to pick up and toss down the trash chute when he leaves for work. His apartment is right next to mine, so he won’t miss seeing the bag. He’ll know what to do.

Thank goodness for Darren. I don’t know what I’d do without him.

Once my door is securely locked, I sink down onto the floor, sitting with my back against the wall, I close my eyes and draw in deep breaths.

Just breathe.

It’s okay.

Everything’s okay.

I return to the bathroom, strip, and climb into the shower. I need a nice, hot shower after handling roadkill. When I’m done, I towel-dry my hair and let it hang loose to finish drying.

Finally, I can head to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. I’m going to need a lot of coffee today—my comfort beverage. Besides having to deal with the gore outside my door, today’s the day my godfather, Edward, is bringing a complete stranger to my apartment.

Unlike my father, Edward believes me when I say someone is terrorizing me, and to prove my claims aren’t just in my head, he’s hired a security company to investigate. This stranger—a guy by the name of Miguel Rodriguez—is coming to stay with me to gather proof of my claims.

The last thing I want is to let a stranger into my apartment, but I really don’t have a choice. I need proof. I need a witness.

I’m grateful that someone is willing to help me, but the idea of having a stranger in my apartment is almost more than I can bear. It beats the alternative, though—my stalker continuing to chip away at my sanity and make my life miserable.

I know very little about this guy—Miguel. He works for a company called McIntyre Security, and he’s a professional bodyguard. That gives me some comfort. He protects people for a living. Maybe he’ll protect me. I haven’t felt safe for years now—not since my mom was killed. Feeling safe is something I yearn for, but it feels so far out of reach.

While the coffee brews, and my muffin toasts, I open my balcony doors. The early June breeze smells fresh. Sunshine bathes my little wooden balcony which is filled with plants of all sorts—hanging flower baskets and potted trees, ferns, vegetables, and herbs. My second-story balcony is my little bit of heaven. It’s as close to the outside world as I dare go. He can’t reach me up here.

I really lucked out with this apartment. I have a south-facing view, which means I get direct sunlight all day long. And instead of staring at the back of yet another apartment building, I get to gaze out at a lovely view of a neighborhood park, filled with trees and shrubs and flowers. I get to watch children riding their bikes along the paved paths, parents pushing their children on the swings, people jogging, people walking their dogs. In essence, I get to watch others go about the process of living their lives like they don’t have a care in the world. I’m a voyeur of life, but never a participant.

I learned at an early age that the world is a dangerous place. There are evil people out there—monsters—who will take what they want without any regard for the lives of the families they destroy. There are those who take innocent lives without hesitation, without warning.

When my coffee is ready, I slather butter and strawberry jam on my toasted English muffin. I settle at the kitchen table with my breakfast and gaze out the balcony doors, across the parking lot, at the little neighborhood park beyond.

As I sip my coffee, I spot one of my neighbors, a blonde woman about my age, twenty-four, named Becky, as she pushes a stroller across the half-empty parking lot to the park. She’s a stay-at-home mom. Her son is just two years old. I know this because he was born shortly after I moved in to this apartment.

When they reach the park, Becky heads right for the swing set and buckles her son into one of the toddler swings. As she pushes him, he’s all smiles and giggles. He claps his hands with glee. The sight of them together makes my heart ache because that’s something I can never have.

The one thing I want more than anything is to have a husband and a child. But that life isn’t in my future. It can’t be. My rose-colored glasses were shattered a long time ago.

The world is too dangerous to risk it.

After finishing breakfast, I wash my plate and silverware and set them in the drying rack. Then I fill my watering can and water the many plants in my dining room, positioned near the balcony doors so they get plenty of sunlight.

When the indoor plants are taken care of, it’s time to go out onto the balcony to water the outdoor plants. I stand at the screen door for a good ten minutes studying the parking lot and making sure there’s no one out there to see me. When I’m finally sure the coast is clear, I open the screen door and take a step outside. Pumpkin follows me outside and starts sniffing the outside air. His nose twitches as he takes in the scents around us—car exhaust, sunshine, fresh air, and the plants on my balcony. Sometimes I imagine I can smell the lilacs and the wild roses that grow in the park.

Immediately, my heart starts pounding, but I’m outside only for a minute or so to quickly water my plants. Not a second longer.

As soon as I’ve watered all the outdoor plants, I shoo Pumpkin back inside and follow closely behind him. I close the screen door and lock it. I test the lock once, twice, to make sure it’s secure. I don’t think anyone can reach my second-floor balcony, but I can’t be too careful. I suppose if he had a ladder, he could.

People out there have a false sense of security because they haven’t seen what I’ve seen. Most of them haven’t felt what I’ve felt, or lost what I’ve lost.

When my mother died, I lost everything.

Thinking about her stirs bittersweet memories. My gaze goes to the photograph of us which hangs on the wall between the balcony door and the kitchen. It was taken at our home, outside on our back patio. My mother loved her flower gardens. I’m sure that’s where I got my love of plants. I can still remember the scent of the flowers in our garden, the sound of water splashing in the patio pond, the songs of birds flitting from tree to tree.

This photo of me and my mother is my favorite. I’m wearing a white and blue polka-dot swimsuit, fresh out of the pool, with a colorful beach towel draped over my shoulders. I’m leaning back against her—getting her clothes wet, of course—but she didn’t care. No, she’s smiling as she leans forward, her arms wrapped around my slender shoulders, kissing the back of my wet hair.

Dad always said that Mom and I were two peas in a pod. We had the same shade of red hair, the same pale complexion, the same freckles scattered across our cheeks and noses. The same blue eyes. She loved calling me her mini-me.

And then one day, she was gone—taken from me in an instant—and all the light went out in my life.

My father grew bitter and withdrawn, and shortly after her death he looked at me with utter disdain that gradually morphed into disgust. He blamed me for her death because Mom and I were out shopping for school clothes for me when it happened. Of course it was my fault.

I lose myself in the photo of us together, staring into her crystal clear blue eyes, so like mine. I was a carbon copy of my mother—I still am. I was indeed her mini-me.

I’ve often wished I could trade my life for hers.

Maybe then my father wouldn’t hate me so much.

Mentally, I shake myself. To keep my mind from wandering down a dark path that leads to nothing but pain, I disappear into the spare bedroom, which I turned into my painting studio. In here, I can lose myself in colors and shapes. I busy myself with my latest commission—a tiny portrait of a little white dog with a pink, diamond-studded collar—and try to forget the fact that a complete stranger is going to invade my home today.