23. Jenna
JENNA
M cCarthy never comes to rescue me. I don’t know why I even want him to.
Blowing my nose, I head out into the drizzling evening, checking behind me to make sure Andreas isn’t following me.
I bought him a slice of pie to calm him down.
Maybe this will give me a break from his crazy messages for a while. I check my phone impulsively to see if he sent any more after.
I have to duck under an awning of a closed bookstore to catch my breath.
There are messages—a few whiny ones from Brock, drunken angry texts from Nathan, then more of those unknown numbers that I assumed and assured myself were just from Andreas.
Andreas, who was an unemployed software developer who didn’t have anything better to do except set up burner numbers to harass me from.
However, my ex was in the café with me for the last forty-five minutes, ranting and raving. He definitely was not texting me.
Then who was?
I missed the last ferry.
I delusionally believed “Jason” was the one and scheduled the date late. Now I’m stuck in the city. I could spend the night in the park, like I did with Granny Mavis and the seniors, but I don’t have Cher to sleep in.
The rain is falling harder now.
I huddle under my umbrella, my feet squelching in my heels.
My phone rings, and I almost drop it in a puddle, thinking it’s my unknown stalker.
“Mom?”
“Are you coming home? It’s cold outside.”
“I told you I have to work.”
“Oona’s son just found a cot to rent on a houseboat, and his friend offered to take you in.”
My new boyfriend is waiting in the wings after all. Great.
“Sorry, Mom, I can’t. We have a deadline.” I cover the mouthpiece as thunder rolls.
“The corporate world will steal your soul. You need to prioritize love and family! Who cares about money or spreadsheets? Nature will provide.”
Thank God for Granny Mavis. I’d never have learned to read with that attitude.
“Gotta go, Mom—have a meeting.”
Though my mom annoys me, the night does feel colder and darker once the call ends.
I head uptown. Maybe the wellness room will be open?
A car speeds past me. I jump to avoid getting splashed .
Should I move to a small town and open up a bakery, sell pastries shaped like dachshunds, meet a lumberjack, and have baby lumberjacks?
Another car speeds past me.
Something niggles in my subconscious… Is that the same car?
“It’s a city,” I say to remind myself. “It’s not the same car. There are lots of green sedans out in the world.”
But what if it is?
“You’re paranoid. McCarthy is in your head.”
The wind howls through the tall office buildings.
I’m walking through McCarthy’s development. Most of the offices are dark and empty. The shops are all closed. It’s spooky.
I want a hot shower. Longingly, I think of that ginormous tub full of steaming water in McCarthy’s master bathroom.
Truman whines in his bag.
All I’d have to do is admit I was wrong and I could be in that tub right now, maybe with a big bowl of fresh, handmade pasta… and listen to McCarthy be smug and insufferable about it?
No thanks.
But I could at least get dry.
Anton waves when he opens the lobby door for me. “I’ll tell McCarthy you’re coming up.”
“Let’s not be hasty. I’m just going to pick up something I left in the car earlier, then I’ll be out.”
“Sure thing.” He swipes the card for the elevator and holds the door for me.
The SUV, sleek and black, is fortunately unlocked when I sneak into the parking garage. I huddle up in the back seat .
Truman shakes off as I slowly unbutton my soaking-wet blouse with numb fingers and kick off my shoes.
I don’t have the car keys to turn on the heat, but being out of the rain is enough.
With the wet clothes drying on the back of the driver’s seat, I curl up on the bench seat of the SUV, in my bra and panties.
The seat smells a little like McCarthy. Closing my eyes, I imagine I’m back in his penthouse, snuggled in that big warm bed.
And no, not like that, because in my fantasy, McCarthy’s taking a long business trip to Australia, and I have the whole place to myself.
My phone, in its little phone pouch attached to my Stanley cup, dings.
Don’t look at it.
But I have to. I have to know.
It’s a photo of me, drenched, from maybe twenty minutes ago.
The car. I knew it.
I’m shaking now and not just from my rapidly drying skin.
It’s not a “stalker” anymore; it’s a stalker . Someone is after me.
“You’re safe here,” I whisper to myself. McCarthy’s not letting anyone into this tower. He has the whole thing locked down. Sure, some lasagna and a warm blanket would be nice, but we’re safe, we’re—
A huge gloved hand slams against the window of the SUV.
Screaming, I scramble back.
“Lock, lock!” I scream. The doors click right as my stalker tries the handle.
“Help! Someone, please! ”
He crosses in front of the car, all apex predator, a black shadow in the dim light of the garage.
How did he find me? How did he get in here? There’s a gate.
I scream made-up curse words as the windows shatter, the squares of tempered glass raining on me like glitter. Gloved hands grab me, one on my neck, the other hooking under my arm to pull me, flailing, through the blown-out glass.
My bare feet kick as I fight him, and my toes scrape the buckles of his boots as I scream and kick at him while whaling at his helmet with my Stanley cup.
“McCarthy, help!” I give in and scream for him. “He’s after me! He found me! Help! Please , McCarthy, help me!”
My stalker grunts as I pummel my Stanley cup into his stomach. Then he turns me around to hold me in a crushing bear hug while I scream like I’m being murdered.
Because, hello? Creepy stalker psycho? I totally could be.
A huge hand presses over my mouth as I fight.
I fucked up , my brain babbles. I screwed up . McCarthy was right. I should have just called him, should have admitted I was in over my head.
I do obsessively read true crime wiki pages when it’s three a.m. and the intrusive thoughts won’t let me sleep—it’s either that or relive all the most embarrassing moments from elementary school through college, all in full color and chronological order.
I therefore understand that I am, to use the technical term, fucked.
McCarthy can’t hear me all the way upstairs in his penthouse. I am about to be taken to a second location. They will never find my body. Truman’s my only hope …
My dog isn’t attacking. He’s bouncing happily around the psycho stalker murderer’s feet, doing his pet me—pet me—I know you love me, so pet me! dance.
“I’d ask if this means,” the psycho killer snarls through the helmet, “that you’re finally taking your stalker problem seriously, except that you’re half naked in the back seat of my car instead of coming to me for help. So you’ve obviously learned nothing.”
I stop struggling.
McCarthy lowers me, and I turn. His arms are still around me as I balance on the balls of my feet on his boots. My scared face is reflected in the helmet.
“Sorry, I …” I lick my lips, realizing how, in hindsight, this all seems like a little bit of an overreaction. Who else would be in McCarthy’s garage other than—duh?—McCarthy?
The huge man rips off his helmet, spins me off of him, then reaches through the broken window for my phone… and sees the photo.
“Did one of your fiancés”—he spits out the word—“send you this?”
“I don’t think I know exactly?” I admit.
He goes still for a moment as the implication settles in the dark around us.
“So you have multiple men out to kidnap and abuse you?”
I squeeze my Stanley cup.
“Jesus, what is wrong with you?” He’s pacing in front of me.
I take a sip from the straw. Somehow that makes him even angrier.
I cross my arms. My bra is too small because I don’t have the mental energy to try to find my new correct size. Shivering and wet and half naked in front of your client is not a good look.
“You’re not supposed to be driving. You lost your license,” I remind him.
A gloved hand slams on the car, and I scream.
“Admit it—you’re scared. That’s why you’re here. You need my help. You need me.”
“No, I don’t. Go away.”
He takes two steps away then turns back and steps up in my face, his hand on my jaw forcing me to look up at his steel-gray eyes.
“If you think for a minute I’m going to save you from yourself, carry you into my penthouse and keep you safe, even if you refuse to acknowledge the reality of the situation, you are severely misguided.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t need your help. And actually, I’m pretty sure it’s just my ex-fiancé… like, fifty percent sure Brock took the photo. I think…”
“One of the most dangerous things to a woman is their ex-boyfriend.”
“Aside from you, you mean?”
He glowers down at me.
“Don’t worry about me. This is temporary until I find a new boyfriend who will fall head over heels for me and let me move in because he just can’t stand to be away from me.”
“You—” He blows a curse through his teeth and turns on his heel. “I’m fucking done with you.”
It takes a good long minute of mindless scrolling through Instagram and trying to calm down before I’m able to doze off .
It doesn’t help that Truman is grumpy and grumbling as he paws at the seats, trying to get comfortable.
The problem is that as soon as I drift off, I think I see his face—Brock there, shadowy in the rear window, face right up to the glass…
Watching me…
Waiting…