Chapter 52

Chapter Fifty-Two

I have made a terrible mistake.

I should never have tried to take that water bottle. I should've just picked up my purse and made a run for it, even if all I'm wearing is a T-shirt and underwear. I made the stupidest mistake that a woman can make—I didn't run when I had the chance.

And now Tom is standing a few feet away from me in the living room, wearing an undershirt and boxer shorts, his black hair still shiny and wet from the shower. His eyes are dark and impassive.

"What?" I ask.

"I said, what are you doing?"

"Oh." I look down at my purse and manage a smile. "I was just going to grab my phone."

"Your phone is in the bedroom."

He's right. I left my phone on top of his dresser. I really, really wish I hadn't done that. If I hadn't, I would be calling 911 right now.

Instead, I manage a laugh. It sort of sounds like I'm being strangled.

"I didn't see it, I guess," I say. "I'll go grab it then."

Tom's eyes narrow. "Are you okay?"

I can not let on that I suspect anything about him. Because if he realizes I've caught on… Well, we know what happened to Bonnie. Maybe this is why he finally killed her. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be okay?"

He doesn't answer. He just keeps staring at me.

"Actually," I say, "the truth is, I'm not feeling so hot."

"What's wrong?"

I dredge up the excuse that makes most men overly eager to send me on my way. "I just got my period."

But Tom doesn't seem the least bit thrown by that revelation. I guess that shouldn't surprise me. "I've got some ibuprofen in my medicine cabinet, if you need it."

"Yeah, um…" I rub the general area where I'm pretty sure my uterus is. "I would rather just head out. I'd rather be in my own space."

Tom is quiet. In a movie, this would be the moment when the bad guy realizes that I have caught on to him and that he can't let me leave—at least, not alive. I watch the wheels turning in his brain. Tom is an extremely smart man—he's got to figure it out.

And then another terrible thought occurs to me:

Where did I leave the scrunchie?

If I left it on the dresser, next to my phone, the jig is up. He will recognize that I found a hair accessory belonging to a dead woman. And I will never leave this apartment.

Damn it, where did I leave that scrunchie?

"You should stay," he says. "It's late. You don't really want to go home in the middle of the night, do you?"

I rub my abdomen again. "I'd just feel better sleeping in my own bed."

"You can have my bed to yourself, if you want. I'll sleep out on the couch."

"No, I…uh…" I clear my throat. "I would really rather just go home."

His gaze drops to my purse. If he checks inside, I'm done. I can't explain to him why I stuffed an empty water bottle into my purse. Although I'm sure I would manage to come up with some sort of lame excuse.

It's all about the scrunchie. If he saw it, I'm dead. If he didn't see it, I might get out of here alive.

My heart is beating so hard I'm astonished he can't hear it. But after a few seconds of contemplation, he steps aside.

"Okay," he says agreeably, "but at least let me call you an Uber."

I can't believe this. He's actually letting me leave.

I go back to the bedroom with Tom at my heels. I'm suddenly certain the scrunchie will be right smack in the middle of the bed, and that when I turn back to look at Tom he'll be holding a butcher knife, which he will then use to stab me to death. But the scrunchie isn't on the bed.

Where the hell is it?

It takes me a second to locate it—it's lying on the carpet, next to the nightstand. But since the carpet is dark, the black scrunchie is difficult to see. Although it's certainly not impossible. I imagine his gaze falling on the black fabric, his forehead furrowing as he tries to figure out what it is. The recognition dawning on his face.

I've got to get the hell out of here…

Tom sits on the edge of the bed while I put my clothes back on. I'm certain he's going to notice the scrunchie at any moment, and my heart is pounding so hard my chest hurts. But then, while I'm slipping my shoes on, Tom disappears into the bathroom. I take the opportunity to quickly kick the scrunchie back under the nightstand.

There. Now he'll never know that I know.

Tom returns to the bedroom with a couple of pills in his palm. He holds them out to me, and I eye them with barely concealed suspicion.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Ibuprofen."

Right. I am not taking random pills handed to me by this man. I'm not a complete idiot. "No, thanks. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure? You look pretty uncomfortable."

I smile as convincingly as I can. "Like I said, I just want to go home."

My heart continues to pound in my chest as Tom escorts me to his door. He blocks my way as he leans in to give me a kiss goodbye, and it almost makes my skin crawl. It's a far cry from the kiss we had when I first arrived.

"Well," I say, "goodbye!"

"Sure, I'll see you later." His eyes spend a moment probing my face until I start to squirm. "When you're feeling better."

Yeah, right. If he lets me out of this apartment, I am never, ever coming back.

"Do you want me to walk you downstairs?" he asks. He's still blocking the door, and all I want is for him to move so that I can get the hell out of here.

"No. No ." I laugh, trying to sound casual even though it's the most fake laugh I've ever heard. "I don't want you to have to go up and down five flights of stairs. I'll be fine. It's really not that late. And I'll call my own Uber."

"You sure?"

"Definitely."

"Because I don't mind."

Oh God, is he ever going to let me leave? "Really, I just want to be alone."

Finally— finally! —Tom turns to unlock his door, and I step outside. I'm convinced that at any moment he's going to pull me back inside and wrap his fingers around my neck. Or smash my skull open with a hammer like he did to the mouse. But he doesn't do any of that. He simply closes the door behind me and locks it, and that's that.

I make it all the way to the stairwell before I start running.