Chapter 7

Audrey

W hat are you wearing?

Jason gets a kick out of texting me the same message every evening. It's become our little inside joke, and I enjoy describing in full detail every layer of clothing that I've got on. The heat is supposed to be up and working again by tomorrow. I'm counting the hours at this point, nestled on my sofa with a glass of mulled wine and a thick blanket wrapped up around me. The TV is on, but I'm not paying attention.

I'm too busy enjoying my usual back-and-forth with Jason. He's at home and just put Lily to bed. I'd love to meet her. I'd like to know what she's like. There's a good chance that getting to know her will give me a clue about the inner workings of Jason's life and his character. He has been nothing but honest with me, but our children are our mirrors, whether we like it or not.

My baby blue jammies , I write to Jason.

My fingers are cold, even though the radiator is literally at my feet.

I know those. They're cute. What else?

My bathrobe. And a blanket.

That's not enough. Get another blanket. Or, better yet, let me come pick you up and take you over to Lake View.

My heart tightens ever so slightly. I know he just wants me to be comfortable, but I can't get over this reticence; it's illogical. We've been together, sort of, for almost a month now. Jason has repeatedly offered to have me stay in Lake View, and I have consistently rejected him every time.

It's too far from work , I say it again. But thank you. I'm okay. The heat is back on tomorrow.

Your stubbornness annoys and turns me on at the same time , he shoots back.

Next time I see you, it'll be at my place, I tell him . And I won't be wearing anything.

You'll open the door naked? What will Mrs. Ashel say?

She'll be wearing her birthday suit, too. I wouldn't be surprised if everybody in this building goes buck naked to celebrate having the heat back on , I reply, a grin on my face as I type.

Thanks for the mental image of a naked Mrs. Ashel .

Honestly, though, I type and giggle at the same time , thank you for being so involved with The Emerald and everyone's concerns here. I wish all landlords were like you.

It's my pleasure. I take pride in doing my job right. Off to bed, Audrey. The kids count on you first thing in the morning.

I check the time and gasp. Jason is right; it's almost midnight. I have to be up before six in the morning if I want to get in that first coffee before I head to work.

Always looking out for me . Sweet dreams, Jason.

He replies with a kissing emoticon.

A knock on the door startles me.

Something doesn't feel right. I know it's not Jason. He'd tell me if he was coming over. And besides, we just said goodnight to each other. "Who the hell comes knocking at midnight?" I mutter to myself and slowly get up from the sofa.

Another knock.

I practically jump out of my skin. I hold my breath, taking cautious steps toward the door when the third knock comes. It's louder this time, a whole fist banging against the door. It's hard and menacing, and it's making my nerves jump.

Suddenly, the past rears its ugly head in the rearview mirror of my consciousness as I struggle to keep it together. Could it be? No, I've been careful. It doesn't make sense.

The fourth knock is downright aggressive.

I'm frozen on the spot, mere inches away from the door. I'm not breathing anymore. But my heart beats fast and loud, echoing in my ears, drumming relentlessly as I stare at the shadow stretching in from the building's hallway. I can see him through the bottom crack of my door, standing there, knocking over and over. I dare not step any closer. Whoever it is, he might hear me. I just turned the TV off, and there's not a single sound coming out of my apartment.

As far as anyone is concerned, I'm not home.

Another knock brings stinging tears to my eyes, quickly followed by a letter sliding under the door. I watch the shadow pull away and hear heavy footsteps receding. The longest minute of my life passes. I'm still holding my phone, the grip so tight that my knuckles have turned white. My palm is sweating. I slip the phone into my bathrobe's pocket and pick the letter up with shaky fingers.

"Oh, fuck," I mumble as I unfold the single piece of white paper.

The letters are clear in their black ink.

The message quickly sears itself into my very soul.

For two years, I thought I was okay. At first, I looked over my shoulder a lot, making sure that no one was following me before I ever turned the corner to my street. I made sure I didn't pick up a tail whenever I went in and out of the subway. For a while, I even waited in the downstairs lobby after walking in just to see if anyone might come in after me. No one ever did.

Once the coast seemed clear, I slipped back into living mode.

I got a job teaching kindergarten. Slowly but surely, I made a couple of work friends—the kind who didn't ask too many questions and didn't insist on my attendance at various cordial events. We had the occasional drink after work, but that was it.

The words in the letter are written in Russian. I keep reading them, hoping that somehow, they'll transform into something different. But the meaning is blisteringly obvious:

We've found you; now it's time to come home.