11. Eleanor
11
Eleanor
Do you have any idea how hard it's been to get you somewhere alone?
I do love a 30-day trial period. I always put a note in my phone as soon as I sign up so I remember to cancel before they start charging me some ungodly sum every month. Because this gym? With the cardio equipment that automatically links to your phone, a full-sized pool on the roof and a sauna/steam bath in the locker rooms in the basement? My salary could never.
“And towels go here when you’re done with them,” the tall, tan, toned blond man says, pointing to a discreet corner structure that has Used Towels embossed on the front and a circular hole for easy deposits. He sighs for the fourth or fifth time on our tour, and I get the feeling he couldn’t care less if I lived or died.
“Cool, thanks,” I say, “um, I think I can find my way around now, if you want to—”
“Okay, cool.” Without another glance in my direction, he strides away. His long legs eat up the rubber flooring and he disappears through some glass double doors with the gym logo shown in reverse from the back
And just like that, I’m on my own in the equipment room. It’s vast, lined totally in mirrors, and there’s a handful of people who look completely focused, like they know exactly what they’re doing. The air is filled with the clinking sound of weights hitting weights. A woman walks by, and her eyes briefly scan me.
I want to believe it’s to approve of my gym attire, but I know differently, because my set doesn’t match like her gorgeous olive-green crop top and leggings. I’ve got on the bike shorts I wear under every dress and an oversized t-shirt with those weird, small, inexplicable holes that always seem to form on the stomach of my soft shirts. I look down at my shorts and tug them lower on my thighs .
Objectively, I know that people aren’t paying attention to me. I know the judgment I think I’m seeing is in my head. I know that no one in the middle of their workout is stopping to wonder who the overweight girl thinks she’s fooling. Everyone is way more involved in what they’re doing to really notice what anyone else is. Still, I feel gauche and awkward with my free membership in this fancy gym with these people who look like they belong here.
They gave me a locker as part of my temporary membership, and I’ve already deposited my coat and gym bag. I’m dressed for it and have my water bottle, so there’s nothing keeping me from starting my workout except me. So, I head to the treadmills and choose one. It doesn’t take long for the endorphins to kick in, and I get into the rhythm of the first workout playlist that Spotify suggests.
When I’m done, I debate taking a shower. They looked so cool during the tour with rainfall heads, but I didn’t bring one of my bath sheet towels and their towels look small. I really hate the feeling of sweat drying on my skin, though, so maybe I can just double up. And I do want to sit in the steam room for a minute; I’ve never been in one before.
As I descend the main stair into the first-floor area, I stare at my phone screen. I open a blank new text chat with grandpa, but like they have so many times this week, my fingers just hover over the screen in uncertainty. I type things, and I delete them. What do you say to the man stalking you?
Hi. So basic. Boring.
Watched anything good lately? What, am I trying to be funny with that?!
I have more questions. Kind of demanding. Would he even want to answer them?
Why am I even considering initiating conversation?
Because he put the ball in my court. He told me the next move was mine and I… I want to see him again.
I reach the bottom stair, pause, and type out:
Thanks for the flowers.
Another bouquet was delivered this morning, even though the other one is still alive. This one has different flowers entirely, but they’re still fragrance free. I’m starting to think people are making up the sniffing thing they do —
Someone clips my shoulder from behind, jolting me forward. I catch myself with one hand on the railing and clutch my phone against my chest with the other so it doesn’t go flying.
“Sorry!” the girl calls over her shoulder as she makes her way towards the exit.
I look after her, waving to show no harm—okay, she’s not even looking—and my eye catches on a large man at the check-in desk. It’s that detective that was at my door… Detective O’Irish-Sounding? O’Malley maybe? My heart lurches. What is he doing here? Following me?!
Calm down, Eleanor. I do occasionally run into people I recognize. We live in the same city and it’s not that big of a place. I’m being paranoid. I’m sure a detective can afford to come to a gym like this. He’s allowed to go to the same gym as me, just like my gynecologist is allowed to go to the same farmer’s market.
Yeah, but my gynecologist can’t arrest me for lying to the police.
I decide to give him a wide berth, made easier as he strides away from the desk, off in the opposite direction from where I’m standing. He’s not really dressed for the gym, still wearing fancy loafers and a leather jacket, so he kind of sticks out among the gym shorts and tee shirts. But so do most people on their way in. He’s probably headed to the men’s locker room to change.
I glance back down at the phone screen and my stomach drops. Oh no. Oh no, oh no.
The text sent.
This is bad. Is this bad? I did want to reach out; it’s like the universe just made the decision for me. But now that it’s out there, the single message on an otherwise blank screen feels desperate and a little pathetic.
What good can come of this? What am I even trying to do, here? He’s a killer.
A killer who sends me flowers. A killer who—in spite of myself—I’m so curious about, I can’t stand it. Maybe he has reasons, something explainable. I want to let him fill in the blanks, let him confirm or correct what I think I know.
I turn the corner on the stairs to finish the half-flight that leads down to the sub-1st floor area with the locker rooms. The men’s room is on one end of a narrow hall, the women’s on the other. The whole area is blissfully empty, likely because it’s a Sunday evening. Most people are at home, spending time with their families and/or getting ready for a long work week ahead of them. But my next day off fell on Monday this week so, for the first time in a long time, I have two days off in a row and this feels like the start of my weekend.
Is it normal behavior to take your phone—which is no longer water tight due to an unfortunate incident with gravity and the stairs in my building—into the shower and then also the room full of steam? Especially because if he texts, even though I’ll read it immediately, I’m going to make myself wait to reply anyway so I can seem cool and aloof?
Probably not. But I do it anyway.
I wait until the coast is clear to step outside of the shower, wrapped in the two towels overlapping, and hurry over to the steam room. It’s pretty dark inside with only the one overhead bulb, and the little bit of light scatters from all the water in the air. There’s a bench that makes a U shape, hugging the walls opposite the frosted glass door entrance.
I choose the seat in one of the far corners, reveling in the solitude. There’s a loud background sound from the spigot intermittently dispensing steam, but otherwise it’s kind of peaceful. It’s so private. I can’t see much further than my hand outstretched in front of me in the misty air. I think people normally sit in here nude.
My phone starts buzzing. My heart flutters and I grin like an idiot down at the name flashing across the top. I swipe across the screen and just as I’m about to lift it to my ear, I hear, “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been to get you somewhere alone?”
My eyes fly open at the voice. That deep, gravelly tone echoing around me off the tile is instantly recognizable, since I literally just saw him. But I can’t really see him now through the steam, except for as a vague, dark shape. My heart starts hammering.
“D-detective O’Malley? What—this is the women’s room! You can’t be in here!” I clutch the towel around my chest and snap my knees together. This feels bad, ominous, and being nearly naked seems like a distinct disadvantage. I glance down at my phone and debate hanging up on Mac to call… who, 911?
“Jesus, you are a creature of habit, ain’t ya? You go to work, you go home, same way every time. Public, well-lit route. You probably got pepper spray in that bag you hold so tight, too, huh? If you were a slightly more interesting person, I wouldn’t have had to create my own opportunity to talk to you.”
“What?” I ask. The air is hot and wet in a way that feels like I should be able to blink away some of the blurriness, but that’s not the case. My head is starting to feel thick with it. “I’m confused. Um, do you have more questions for me? Did you try reaching me at home?”
“Security cameras already caught me there once.”
My stomach starts to sink. He’s not a detective. There’s no way even the worst kind of police-brutality offender would try to avoid security cameras and corner a woman, naked and alone. I look back down at my phone screen. The call is active, though I haven’t heard him speak. My instinct is to hide it from O’Malley—if that’s even his name—because it feels like my last lifeline. I slowly lower the phone to the bench next to me, face down.
“Why wouldn’t you want anyone to know—”
I stop mid-sentence with a gasp and try to back up as far as I can as the guy steps close enough for me to see him through the steam. He’s fully clothed and his handsome face is covered in sweat. Oh, and he’s got a gun pointed at my chest.
My hands shoot up instantly as fear spikes through me, making them tremble. I’m trapped. He stands between me and the only door and—though it’s probably about six feet wide—the room feels too narrow for me to try to get around him.
“Oh my God,” I cry, hearing the terror in my tone.
“If you scream, I’ll shoot you. Got it?”
Definitely not a cop. My stomach lurches and I’m sure I’m going to throw up. “S-someone will come in—”
He shakes his head, a slow, nasty smile curving his lips. “Everyone’s evacuating. Didn’t you hear the fire alarm going off?” his taunting tone makes it clear he was responsible. “Oh, that’s right. I cut the line down here.”
I’m finding it very hard to look away from the black hole staring me down. I’d never seen a real gun in person up until a little while ago, and now I’ve seen two. This is the first one that’s ever been pointed at me, though, and the panic that’s welling in my chest is also clouding my mind. My body isn’t accustomed to this kind of rush of adrenaline, and it’s making my muscles feel all weird, like jelly. “ W-what’s—”
“What happens next is up to you. You can either tell me what you know, or I’ll be escorting you out the emergency exit into the van waiting for us and we’ll go somewhere a lot more private for this chat. I can think of a few ways we can make you talk…” his eyes fall meaningfully down my body, resting on the bare skin of my chest and arms, then legs.
My breath stutters out. The threat of a second location, and whatever he’s implying they’ll do to me there, is almost more terrifying than the gun. I try not to look down at my phone, not wanting to draw attention to it, but I wonder if Mac is still there. If he’s listening. I know it’s a long shot… who knows where he is right now? And how could he know where I am?
“Is this about that guy in the picture? I swear, I don’t know anything about him!”
“Yeah, but you know something.”
I curse myself for being the world’s worst liar. I fan myself a little. “God, it’s so hot in here…” I breathe.
“Listen, lady. Rossi doesn’t fuck around, okay? So, you can either play nice or you’ll go down with that Russian fucker when we find him. Because we’re going to find him.”
“Rossi?” I repeat, baffled. “Like, Jay Rossi?”
“Are you fucking stupid or something?”
There’s a rush of cool air, which blows the steam around just enough for me to see the outline of another large person enter the room. O’Malley jerks his head around and manages to get out, “What—” before something wraps around his neck from behind.
In horror, I watch as the thug brings up both hands, clutching the thin line of what looks like wire around his throat with one and turning the weapon upside down to point it behind him with the other.
“Gun!” I shriek.
It’s wrenched out of O’Malley’s hand and I hear it clatter to the ground a second later. He’s struggling wildly, all jabbing elbows and twisting limbs. The sound of male grunts of effort and pain cuts through the noisy steam spigot, filling the echoing space. Their collective mass goes careening forward, and, running purely on instinct, I dive for the opposite corner of the room to keep out of the way.
I spy the gun through the steam and make a grab for it, just as the wood of the bench cracks and splinters under the weight of whatever fell onto it. My fingers close around the cool handle and I whirl, just in time to watch O’Malley’s eyes close in his beet-red face, and his whole body go limp.
With a forceful grunt, the man underneath O’Malley pushes him off and his body rolls away.
Of course it’s Mac.
“Are you okay?” he asks, getting to his feet with some effort, holding his arm like it’s injured. Blood is dripping out of his nose.
Then his eyes drop. And I realize that my towel is gone.
It’s like I’m completely frozen and time slows. His eyes widen, then follow a zigzagging path down my body, then up, stopping midway.
“Eleanor,” he says, his tone cautious and tight, “hand me the gun.”
It’s only then that I realize I’m shaking, and I have the gun pointed right at him.