Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

I've got to be at Bonnie's apartment in fifteen minutes.

I woke up about an hour ago. I showered and nearly put on the pair of sweatpants that I have been wearing with increasing frequency during the week. Working from home has its advantages, but I'm starting to look like a slob. Instead, I put on a pair of yoga pants, which are ever so slightly better.

Bonnie said she would make coffee, so right now I'm drinking some pre-coffee coffee. I have spent the last half hour scrolling through Facebook while contemplating deleting Facebook. I used to enjoy it, but every single one of my friends' posts now seems to consist of babies upon babies. Is anyone besides me not procreating right now?

These women who I used to call my friends seem to be charting every insignificant milestone in their babies' lives and posting them online. What if the babies want some privacy? I wouldn't want eight different perspectives on my eyelashes posted to the internet.

And then, of course, the baby bumps. Do I really need to see a profile photo of your stomach every single week for nine months?

And yes, I can judge them, because at this rate I am never going to have children of my own. I can't fathom the situation in which this would possibly happen.

Last night, I wasted a good hour on Cynch. Over the last year, it has become by far the most popular dating app in the city, possibly because it touts itself as being "exclusive" to New Yorkers. An NYC zip code is required to join, which of course makes it irresistible. Jersey girls need not apply.

Other than being New York exclusive, it's a fairly standard dating app. Each profile contains a photo and the usual stats: single or divorced; has kids or want kids; investment banker or janitor. But one advantage it offers is the capability to search all profiles within a given radius.

That's how I attempted to find Mystery Man.

I searched all the guys in Mystery Man's approximate age range living in a two-mile radius. I extended it to three miles, and then five. I looked through every damn profile, and there was not one guy who resembled Mystery Man living within a five-mile radius of this building.

(Yes, I am that desperate.)

In any case, I am left with four options:

Mystery Man is single, and the one guy in the city who is not on Cynch.

Mystery Man is single but doesn't live in my neighborhood.

Mystery Man is not single.

Mystery Man is gay. (That's a different search term.)

The first option seems like the most likely. Maybe he's single, but he doesn't believe in internet dating. That's fair.

The second option leaves me feeling a little perplexed. If he is single and he doesn't live around here, what was he doing in a residential area all alone in the middle of a Tuesday night?

And that's when a wild thought suddenly occurs to me.

Bonnie was in the lobby when I got home, having just finished her date with Dr. McHottie. And then, by chance, I ran into an attractive guy only a few blocks away from our apartment building.

Is it possible that Mystery Man and Dr. McHottie are one and the same?

No, I don't think it's possible. That would be a strange coincidence, wouldn't it? Anyway, Bonnie said her doctor boyfriend has blond hair, and Mystery Man has very dark hair.

Wait, she did say that, didn't she? I think she did.

While I'm contemplating this possibility, a message pops up on my phone from the Cynch app. While I was searching for Mystery Man last night, another guy named Chad requested to connect with me. He looked pretty cute in his profile—all sparkling green eyes and dimples—and he seemed nice enough, so I accepted the connection. And it seems like Chad wants to talk.

See? I don't need Mystery Man. There are plenty of guys out there, and I'm ready to get back on the horse, as long as we stick to crowded areas this time.

I grab my phone to check the message, expecting that Chad wants to set up a time to get drinks. He hasn't done anything heroic for me like Mystery Man, but I don't need a hero. I just need a decent guy.

Except then I read his message. And my heart sinks.

Hey Sydney, sorry about the ruse, but it's Kevin. I really want to talk to you about the other night. I really feel like we had a lot of chemistry, and I don't want you to blow it because of a misunderstanding.

He doesn't want me to blow it? Is this guy for real?

I block his profile and report it to Cynch. I'm irritated that he was even allowed to sign up under another profile. Don't they have any quality control? The man is dangerous . I wonder if I should go straight to the police this time. Does this constitute harassment?

In any case, I don't have time to call the police right now—I've got to get over to Bonnie's apartment. She told me to be there at a quarter to nine, and she is a sucker for promptness. Besides, Cynch is starting to depress me. Is it possible there are no decent men left in the entire city? I'm starting to think half the guys on Cynch are just Kevin in disguise.

I take the stairs down one flight to Bonnie's apartment, which is almost directly below mine. I get there at 8:46 and press my thumb against the doorbell, waiting to hear her footsteps after it echoes through her apartment.

But after thirty seconds, there are no footsteps. Bonnie hasn't thrown the door open. There's no sign anybody is even home.

Great.

I ring again, letting my thumb linger on the doorbell longer this time. Bonnie told me to show up at this exact time—she wouldn't stand me up at her own apartment, would she? But then again, emergencies happen.

I reach into the side pocket of my yoga pants and pull out my phone. I check my text messages, but there's nothing from Bonnie telling me not to come. I shoot off a message to her:

Hey, everything ok? I thought we were meeting at your apartment at 8:45?

I wait for bubbles to appear on the screen indicating she's typing in a response. But there's nothing.

After another minute, the elevator doors for the floor swing open. Finally —she must have gone out to grab more coffee or something. Except it isn't Bonnie who steps out of the elevator. It's Randy, wearing his usual worn blue jeans and a T-shirt hanging loose on his skinny frame.

He raises his hand in greeting. "Hey, Sydney. What are you doing here?"

Bonnie told me to come because she finds you too creepy to be alone with. "Bonnie invited me over for coffee, but she doesn't seem to be home."

Like me, Randy rings the doorbell. Once again, we wait for sounds of her footsteps behind the door, but once again, the apartment is silent.

This is really strange. It's not like Bonnie at all.

He glances down at his Casio watch. "I've got a busy day. I can't wait around for her."

"But you have the key, don't you?"

Randy's spidery fingers fly to the oversized key ring hanging off his jeans. He has the key to every apartment in the building. He has been in my apartment several times when I wasn't around—with my permission, of course.

"So you can get in, right?" I press him.

"I guess." Randy's Adam's apple bobs slightly. He is so skinny that his Adam's apple is painfully large and sharp. It almost looks like you could slice a finger touching it. "But Bonnie doesn't like me to come into her apartment when she's not there."

It hits me that Randy is aware that Bonnie doesn't like him. I wonder if he has any idea exactly what she says about him when he's not around. More importantly, I wonder if Gretchen has any idea. Gretchen is one of those people who is obsessed with being liked by everyone, and I'm sure she wants everyone to like her boyfriend as well.

"I'm just worried about her," I admit. "This isn't like her."

"Maybe something came up?"

"Look," I say, "you don't have to fix her toilet, but can we at least just go inside and check on her? Like, for one minute?"

"I don't know…"

"Please? I'm worried about her." When he hesitates, I add, "I'll tell her I made you do it."

He looks down at his watch again and sighs. "Okay. Just real quick though."

Randy takes what feels like forever sorting through every key on the giant ring until he finds the right one. I keep glancing over at the elevators, hoping that Bonnie will suddenly materialize carrying a bunch of coffees from Dunkin' Donuts. I mean, I'm sure she's fine. She probably had a date last night with Dr. McHottie and is currently cuddled up in his big bed with his million-thread-count sheets.

I'm happy for her—I swear.

Randy finally gets the door open, but he lets me enter first. As I step into Bonnie's apartment, I half expect to see her racing into the living room with a towel wrapped around her midsection, furious with the two of us for busting in while she was trying to shower.

But no. It's completely silent.

Bonnie's apartment is almost identical to mine in its arrangement, but it looks so different. Bonnie likes nicer things. I have my bare-bones sofa and desk and bookcase, but she spent a lot more time picking out an expensive leather sofa, a chestnut coffee table, and an antique armoire. Her apartment looks like something out of a magazine article on Manhattan living.

"Bonnie?" I call out.

No answer.

"I don't think she's here," Randy says.

He's right. It doesn't seem like she's here. Undoubtedly, she's out with her sexy doctor boyfriend. I get what it's like to be snuggled in somebody's bed and not want to grab an Uber home at two in the morning. But for God's sake, she could've at least called me to tell me she wasn't going to be able to make it.

"I may as well check the toilet while I'm here," he says.

Randy wanders off in the direction of the bathroom. I stay behind in the living room and reach for my phone again. There are still no messages from Bonnie. Seriously, this is kind of rude. I would understand if she canceled at the last minute, but to not even call at all?

Finally, I select Bonnie's name from my list of contacts. I'm going to at least let her know that I was waiting for her as promised, and that now she owes me a coffee like Gretchen did.

Except, when I connect the call, I immediately hear her ring tone. Coming from inside the apartment.

Okay, that's strange…

I turn my head in the direction of the ringing sound. It's coming from the kitchen.

I step into Bonnie's kitchen, which is about as tiny as mine, so it takes roughly five seconds for me to spot her cell phone sitting on the kitchen counter, next to a black scrunchie. Bonnie's phone is still in her apartment.

And that's not all.

My gaze drops down to the linoleum floor. As a rule, Bonnie is a stickler for cleanliness. But right now, her floor isn't clean. It is stained with dark brown circular droplets forming a trail that I now realize leads out of the kitchen and down the hallway to Bonnie's bedroom.

Oh my God.

"Randy?" I croak.

"Hang on!" he calls back. "I'm just trying to fix the toilet."

I follow the trail of droplets down the hallway, my heart pounding. I pass the bathroom, where Randy is fiddling with something in the toilet tank, oblivious to the blood stains on the floor. The trail leads directly to Bonnie's bedroom door, which is closed.

Maybe she's okay. Maybe she had a minor accident and is just sleeping in to recover.

Of course, Bonnie isn't the bleeder. I am. Aside from me, most people don't track blood all over their apartment without noticing.

I reach out and rest my hand on the doorknob. The thought occurs to me that maybe I should call the police instead of investigating on my own. But then again, I'm already here. I don't want to call the police over nothing. Maybe Bonnie is fine. Maybe everything is totally fine.

Slowly, I turn the doorknob. I push the door open, revealing Bonnie's queen-size bed with the lavender bedspread.

And when I see what's on the bed, I can't stop screaming.