Chapter 14 #2
Despite everything that's happened recently, and even with the lingering fear clawing inside me, I grin.
Shuffling inside, I push the door closed behind me.
It feels like an ironclad barrier separating me from the worst of the world—from him.
My bags fall to the floor with a thunk as Emily pulls me into a tight hug.
Her body presses against me, her warmth settling straight into my bones.
She releases me from her arms and stares at me, her forehead creased with worry. Hoping to avoid the questions swimming in her eyes, I scurry away and drop myself onto the couch with a heavy sigh. Her eyes are glued to my face as I sink into the soft fabric.
My eyes wander, roaming over Emily's apartment.
It's small, as most are in this city, but lovingly maintained and impeccably decorated.
Abstract paintings in tan, blue, and gold accent the white walls of the main room.
A round, glass-topped coffee table with gold legs sits at its center, surrounded by the cream-colored couch and matching chair.
Off of the main room are two doors that lead to the bedroom and bathroom.
Each room is outfitted with its own color scheme.
Deep blue and aqua in the bathroom, and yellow and orange in the bedroom.
Nestled in a corner by the front door is a narrow kitchen.
Its stark white tiles are offset by red dishes and appliances displayed on open wood shelving.
When my life calms down, I should ask Emily to help redecorate my house. Can new decor make my home feel safe again? Can it push away bad memories? Is a girl with a chic home less likely to be followed by nightmares?
“So,” Emily's voice pulls me out of my thoughts, “are you going to tell me why you look like death warmed over, or do I need to pry it out of you?”
The sound that escapes me is something between a heavy sigh and a groan. Hoping it will buy me some time to think of an answer that will satisfy a budding investigative journalist without totally freaking her out, I respond, “Pizza first, questions after.”
She rolls her eyes as I pull out my phone to place our usual order of ham and pineapple pizza.
At the sound of clinking glasses, my eyes shift upward to find Emily making cocktails in the kitchen.
Knowing that there's no way she's going to wait until the pizza arrives, I have until the drinks are ready to get my story straight.
My teeth dig into my bottom lip as I try to organize the jumble of thoughts in my head. I want to tell her everything, to drop the crushing weight of this burden. She would help me carry it if I let her.
The sense of relief I felt when I told James was palpable.
Oh, God. James. My stomach clenches. Bile rises in my throat as my mind replays the images of his severed hand, his blood on my kitchen floor.
When I look at Emily in her own kitchen, I blink back tears.
My fingers dig into the arm of the couch as visions of her mangled body flash behind my eyes.
Just as the thoughts come to me, I know instantly that I can't tell her. I may be responsible for James’ death, but I won't be responsible for hers. I press my hand to my mouth to block a sob that threatens to let loose. She can't get hurt because of this.
“Ava,” Emily says as she places two cocktails down on the coffee table, “what's going on?”
My heart is weighted with guilt at the idea of lying to my best friend, but there's no other way to keep her safe. What’s that thing people say about lies? The most believable lies are based in truth?
“There was this really nice guy in my high school, James,” I explain. “I saw him recently and we were going to have a coffee date.”
Emily's face contorts in confusion. “This doesn't sound like a bad thing, but your face says otherwise.”
I release a long breath before continuing, “He died yesterday.”
Emily's eyes widen in understanding. The couch cushions shift as she sits beside me. Her hand grasps mine and squeezes gently.
“What happened?” she asks quietly.
“He was a deputy with the local sheriff's department. He died…well, just doing his job.”
My mouth dries as the partial truth rolls off my tongue. I grab one of the fruity cocktails from the table and take a long sip.
“I just need a distraction. Tell me about your most recent date,” I plead, hoping to redirect the conversation.
Emily's head bobs up and down as her eyes soften.
A sultry smile slides across her face. “Girl, prepare yourself. I’ve got some salacious details for you!”
I breathe a sigh of relief as she launches into a story about Matt, the handsy attorney. No matter how many lies I have to tell, I'll keep her safe from this.
* * *
I peel my eyes open, blinking against the sunlight that streams through the window in Emily's living room. The dull roar of a hangover burns inside my skull, reminding me how many cocktails I drank last night. I chuckle, recalling Emily's animated retelling of terrible dates and lusty encounters.
The warm, earthy aroma of coffee wafts through the room, beckoning me towards the kitchen. Despite my lower back protesting as I pull myself from the soft couch cushions, I feel lighter. My bare feet tap against the tile floor while I follow my nose to the freshly brewed coffee.
A yellow sticky note is stuck to the coffee maker, sporting Emily's neat, curly handwriting.
Went to work. Make yourself at home!
XOXO, Em
I pour myself coffee into the largest mug I can find before retreating to the couch and pulling my laptop from my bag. Feeling safer than I have since this all began, I dive into my work, keeping my mind firmly planted there instead of in the craziness that is my life.
Any thoughts that pop up about him are pushed into the back of my mind, locked behind a concrete wall of my will.
Mastering the art of compartmentalization in the face of horrible circumstances isn't easy.
Though it's been years since I've had to use this particular skill, those blocked off areas of my mind snap back into place with little effort.
When you're the child of an angry alcoholic, you learn quickly to erect mental barriers to keep yourself sane. Maybe sane isn't the right word—alive, is more accurate. My father ensured that my barriers were ironclad.
The day rushes by in a blur of emails and editing notes. Before I know it, evening has rolled around. The sky begins to darken and little lights begin to twinkle around the city, popping up outside the windows like low-hanging stars.
As I stare out of the window, watching those lights glitter, a knock at the door startles me.
My anxiety instantly renews, bubbling up in my chest and squeezing my lungs.
Who could be here? Emily didn't mention anything about a visitor or package being delivered, and she isn’t due home from work for at least another hour.
I keep my footsteps small and light as I creep toward the door.
My shoulders sag in relief when I look through the peephole.
A short, middle-aged man stands outside the door, a cardboard drink tray and a small brown, paper bag balanced in the crook of his elbow.
He pushes his graying hair away from his face, revealing gentle eyes that crease at the edges from his smile.
“Uber Eats delivery,” he calls out.
He must have the wrong door. Feeling it would be rude to ignore him, I open the door and smile at him.
“I'm sorry, but I think you might have the wrong apartment. I didn't order anything,” I say.
His lips pinch together, and he makes a thoughtful noise as he looks down at the order receipt. “The order’s for Ava Moore. It's all paid for, tip and all. Are you Ava?”
My mouth rounds in surprise, while my heart clenches. Did Emily order me a treat?
I answer excitedly, “Yes, that's me.”
“Enjoy!” he says as he presses the drink tray and bag into my hands.
I barely have time to utter a thank you before he turns on his heels and walks away. I hurry back into the apartment and put my goodies down on the kitchen counter. I rip open the brown, paper bag with delight. I've never been one to turn down a good snack, and I've got the hips to show for it.
The scent of cinnamon and pumpkin waft up from the bag, making my mouth water. I've barely laid my eyes on the plump, sugar-coated pumpkin muffin before a chunk of it is in my mouth. I hum, enjoying the moist sweetness of the baked good.
Grabbing the coffee cup from the tray, I take a long sip.
I mentally tell Emily how much I love her when the pumpkin latte hits my tongue.
Looking at the cup, I notice there's something written on the side in black marker.
While popping another piece of muffin into my mouth, I pull my reading glasses down off of my head so I can see it better.
As I read the lettering, the muffin turns to ash in my mouth. Scrawled on the side of the cup are the words:
Little Bird
My heart rate skyrockets, thumping inside my chest like it's trying to break free from my ribcage. I drop the cup like it's on fire. It crashes into the counter, spilling its contents in a dribbling, syrupy mess.
“Shit!” I yell as I grab a roll of paper towels. I can't mess up Emily's apartment. Awareness crashes into me, forcing me to suck in a hard breath. Emily. He found me at Emily's. He knows where she lives. He even knows her apartment number. She's in danger.
I jolt in surprise when my phone buzzes in my back pocket, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. When I take my phone out, it blinks to life, displaying a new text message from an unknown number.
You look tired, baby. Go home and rest.
My eyes widen at the message. Would he hurt me if I don't leave? Would he hurt Emily? Would he kill us? He hasn't done anything to harm me physically. Maybe he doesn't want to.
I shake my head furiously at my own ridiculous thoughts. It's insane to think he wouldn't want to hurt me. He's crazy, and violent, and he's stalking me. Why would I even consider that he wouldn't want to hurt me? Either way, I have to leave.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I chant while stuffing my laptop and clothes back into my duffel bag. I have to get out of here. I can't put Emily in any more danger than I already have. I throw the remnants of the latte and muffin in the garbage before pulling on my coat and heading for the door.
Guilt squeezes at my heart as I send Emily a text about a forgotten doctor's appointment early tomorrow morning that I can't reschedule. A blatant lie, but a necessary one. I have to keep her far away from this mess I'm in.