9. Eleanor
9
Eleanor
What kind of twisted game is he playing?
Satisfied with a job well done, I head towards the shower. Before I get too far, my phone starts buzzing again and I grab it from the pocket of my robe, figuring it’s Melissa calling to finish our discussion. Which is honestly a bit out of character for her—she usually forgets to call me back.
But the name on the screen baffles me. Grandpa? My last grandfather died nine years ago, and he never even got a cell phone.
“Uh… hello?”
“Really fucking creepy, am I?” There’s amusement in the deep timbre of his voice, and it sends an immediate shiver down my spine as my stomach clenches. But not in fear. My stupid adrenaline response seems to be broken.
Mac. He’s calling me? He put his number in my phone? How did he… when did he…
I inhale and it breaks in my throat, making me sound afraid. I try for some false bravado to save face. “You realize I have your phone number now and I could easily take that to the police?”
“How do you know I’m not with the police?”
I hesitate for a second. There’s no way… “Are you?”
“No,” he says with a totally unbothered laugh. The noise sluices across my skin like hot water, leaving a trail of goosebumps. “And even if I believed you were going to, it wouldn’t matter. It’s a burner.”
I hesitate. The dozens of questions that were swirling around in my head that only he could answer are suddenly, inconveniently gone. I look up at the window, like I’m looking at him. Then, realizing that I probably actually am looking at him, I retreat to the bathroom. It feels like leveling the playing field—now we both can’t see each other.
I nearly groan. That’s really not a normal reaction. None of this is normal.
“This is… This is the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me,” I grumble.
“What, getting a call from your favorite grandpa?”
I wince, wishing I didn’t want to laugh at that.
The way his voice wraps around me, the rasp of it, the very subtle twang—way more subtle now than it was initially—the confidence in his tone. I wish there was a way to bottle up how the sound of him makes me feel.
The full-body flush, not the self-doubt.
I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the bathroom door. “Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”
“I want you…” the pause is pregnant. I almost gasp, thinking that’s all he’s going to say, when he finishes, “to tell me what you want.”
I ignore how my heart sinks that his sentence didn’t end in the middle. Wait, what? Tell him what I want? What kind of twisted game is he playing? “What do you mean?”
He doesn’t expand; the silence just stretches between us.
“Why were you in my apartment?”
“To kill someone,” he answers immediately.
Wow. I really wasn’t expecting him to answer that one. The honesty is somehow both chilling and refreshing at the same time—a testament to both the horrific nature of the truth, and how much I hate being lied to. “Just one? You shot more than once. How many did you kill?”
“Are you asking for my stats?”
My stomach drops—that feels like a confirmation of my suspicions. This wasn’t a one-off, he’s a certified, cold-blooded killer. “Why?” I ask softly.
“There’s a lot of different answers to that question. The shortest one is, it’s what I do.”
I chew on my lip. I have no idea what to do with that one. “Does that mean it’s a career, or a calling?”
He laughs. “Clever. Bit of both.”
“And me? What do I have to do with all this? ”
“That part’s up to you, now, darlin’. You know how to reach me.”
The line goes dead and I stare at my phone, completely flabbergasted and flustered. How did I get the chance to talk to him and end up learning nothing?! I mean, I guess I learned he’s not with law enforcement— which I knew —and that he’s a killer— which I also knew —and that I’m so attracted to him that even his voice made me wet— which I also fucking already knew.
With a sigh that turns into a little scream of frustration, I toss the phone. Literally the only new piece of information I have is his phone number, which could be construed as learning something. But his cryptic parting words keep playing back in my mind as I disrobe and turn on the water for my shower.
What part of this is up to me? The part where he’s sending me ominous gifts? The part where he’s putting his contact in my phone without my permission? The part where he watches through my window? How is being stalked within my control?
The time spent under the spray of the shower eventually calms me and I step out, resolved not to let this consume the rest of my entire day.
I get dressed, go to that weird movie theater, and let the teenager who runs the ticket booth pick something for me. Then I lose myself in a tub of buttered popcorn, subtitles and confusing subplots for two hours.
It’s just starting to get dark when I get back, and my stomach gurgles as I climb the stairs. I press my hand to it, full of regret. Ugh, I shouldn’t have eaten all the popcorn, but something about sitting in the dark, eyes glued to a big screen, makes it impossible to stop before you reach the bottom of the tub.
When I reach my floor, I stop dead just outside the stairwell. There are two guys at my door, neither of whom I recognize, but my heart kicks into double time as I see the black uniform on the one with his back to me.
Shit. It’s the cops.
The other guy doesn’t seem to be wearing a police uniform, but they’re standing so close and talking, so they have to be together. I hear him say, “Can’t we just…” and he starts pulling open the flap of his leather jacket, looking around sort of furtively. When he sees me, he stops instantly, letting his coat fall back down. Then he smacks the guy in the uniform on the chest and gestures at me wi th a nod.
The officer turns around. He’s about 50, starting to jowl out, and has a clean-cut look to him. “Hello, Ma’am. My name is Officer McCloskey, and this is Detective O’Malley,” he gestures to the guy in plainclothes standing behind him.
I glance up at the detective, take in his square jaw and piercing eyes and decide he’d be handsome, if not for the weird vibes he’s giving off. He seems incredibly intense, focused on me in a way that doesn’t feel in alignment with Officer McCloskey’s calculatedly friendly, plastered-on smile. The visible guns in his holster under his leather jacket don’t exactly help me feel more at ease.
“Is this you? 3B?”
I nod.
“We have a couple of questions for you, if you have a few minutes.”
I suddenly wish I wasn’t clearly just arriving home, because then I could pretend like I was on my way out or something. I decide to try it anyway. “Actually, I was just—”
“This won’t take long,” he cuts in, and this time the smile falters a bit.
I feel both cornered and blocked from the safety behind my door, but with no good reason to refuse to speak to them—because doesn’t that just make me seem suspicious?—I relent. “Of course.”
“Were you at home between the hours of 8 PM and 10 PM last Wednesday night?”
Oh my God. Oh my God. Yes. Yes, I was. “Uh… no. We all had to vacate because they were fumigating. I was staying at the… um, the motel. Sweet Dreams.”
Officer McCloskey whips out a pad of paper from his little breast pocket and writes something down, then his brows lift. “Super Dreams?”
I swear I’m going to pass out. My heart is hammering in my chest. Can they hear it from there? “Yeah, that one,” I say, forcing a laugh. “I always mess that up.”
Officer McCloskey exchanges a look with the detective. The guy nods once. “Have you seen this man?” the cop asks, stepping towards me with a picture outstretched in his hand.
I move forward to meet him halfway and relief floods my system. It’s not Mac. The image is grainy, maybe from some kind of security camera from the angle, and the cut of the jaw initially had me worried. Also, the size and shape of him is close to what I remember of my intruder—namely, he’s huge and built.
I shake my head, so grateful that I don’t have to lie to the police. About this, anyway. “No. Who is he?”
“He’s a person of interest in a recent incident. We think someone here might have seen something around that time.”
“Why? I mean, I’m sure everyone else here told you that the building was empty. We weren’t allowed back until Friday.” No lies detected.
The detective speaks for the first time and his voice is like a pit of gravel in South Jersey. “We have a witness that says a light came on. In this unit.” He taps my door with two blunt fingertips.
My mind blanks, then races too fast for me to grasp any single thought with both hands. Someone saw the light come on. They know someone was here. Do I lie? Do I stick with my story? Or, do I try to play it off? What if they check the cameras at the motel and see I wasn’t there during that time frame? Will they arrest me for lying? Can I say I was at work? Will they check my story with Harrison? Oh God, what do I do?
“Ma’am?”
I clear my throat, which has gone completely dry. “M-must have been an electricity surge or something. These old buildings are weird like that.”
The look he gives me does not, in any way, assuage my anxiety. I honestly can’t tell if he believes me or not. But I’m in too deep now. No going back. Time to cut and run.
My stomach lets out a loud popcorn-digesting gurgle that sounds bad enough that it gives me an idea. “Is that everything? I’m sorry, officer, but I’m really not feeling well.”
His eyes trace the sweat beading on my forehead and what is probably a ghostly white pallor from fear. He nods and flips his little notebook closed and his eyes flick side to side, looking at doors of the other two apartments. “That can be it for now, but we may have some more questions for you. Don’t leave town, Ma’am.”
I swallow again. “I never do.”
I should leave town.