Chapter 50
I close the door and stand there, letting Jennifer’s parting words sink in.
Whatever she wanted to tell me didn’t sound good, like she knew some awful secret about this apartment but couldn’t bring herself to impart it.
I almost go to her door and knock, press her to tell me if there’s something wrong with our home.
But something in her tone gives me pause.
Maybe I’m misreading it, but she looked nervous.
There’s another way I can find out if anything awful ever happened in our apartment.
The internet. I turn and start toward the office.
But I don’t get that far, because at that moment, Sam arrives home.
He steps into the apartment looking weary, but when he sees me, his eyes light up.
There’s a white plastic bag in his hand, which he holds up. “Hope you haven’t eaten yet. I stopped for Thai food.”
“I haven’t eaten,” I say, my eyes shifting briefly toward the glasses sitting on the coffee table. “I’m starving.”
Sam follows my gaze. “Looks like you had company. Anyone I know?”
“Jennifer, from next door. We cracked open a bottle of wine.”
“Ah. I see.” Sam takes off his coat and drapes it over a stool. He goes into the kitchen and grabs a couple of forks and plates, then puts the bag down and opens it. “Did you have fun?”
“Uh-huh.” I clear away the wine bottles. “Frank and Jennifer had a daughter who died.”
“Really?” Sam raises an eyebrow. “How?”
“Don’t know. She never said, but it was a long time ago. Like fifteen years. From the way she spoke, I got the impression she was their only child.”
“That’s sad.” Sam brings the food over and sits down. He scoops out generous servings of pad thai, then plucks two spring rolls from the container, one for each of us.
“How did your meeting go?” I ask.
“Good.” A faint odor of whisky wafts on his breath. “Happy to be home.”
I pause halfway through lifting a mouthful of food. “Where did you have this meeting, at a bar?”
“What? No. Well . . . sort of.” There is an uncharacteristic hesitancy to Sam’s reply. He picks up his fork, pushes it into the pile of rice noodles on his plate, and twists. “We went out for a drink afterward.”
“Oh.”
“I should have called and let you know. Sorry.”
I shake my head and tell him that it’s fine, despite the flicker of irritation that courses through me.
But I can hardly complain, since I spent the evening drinking wine with Jennifer.
Of course, that was only because Sam was working late.
For all he knew, I was sitting here alone, waiting for him.
“I get the feeling that it’s not fine,” he says.
“I was thinking we’d try that taco place this evening, that’s all.”
Sam puts an arm around me and kisses my cheek. “You should have let me know. I’d pick you over a boring meeting, any day of the week.”
I appreciate the sentiment, and if I’m being honest, Sam going out for drinks after a long day at the office is really not a big deal. “Don’t be silly. I’m sure your meeting was important.”
“Yes.” Sam looks down. He’s still winding rice noodles onto his fork as if it’s a competition to see how much he can get on there. If he keeps going much longer, the entire plate will be stuck to it. “How about we do the taco place over the weekend instead?”
“Sure.”
“Maybe Dawn and Jamie would like to come with us. We could make it a night out.”
“Why not?” I dig in to my food. If it wasn’t for the wine, I’d be ravenous, but as it is, I eat about half, then push the plate away. I stifle a yawn. “I’m about ready for bed.”
Sam has finished all of his. He picks up the plates and takes them into the kitchen, then turns toward the bedroom. “Coming?”
I nod and follow him, switching off the lights as I go. But then I pause, because that uneasy feeling is back. The feeling that we are not alone. I turn and scan the darkness, my eyes roaming through the living room toward my closed office door.
“Hey. What are you doing?” Sam asks from the bedroom.
“Nothing.” I glance toward the kitchen, which is bathed in cool white light from the hood above the stove. The apartment is silent and still. Common sense tells me it’s just us here, yet the feeling persists.
“Jordan.” Sam pokes his head back out of the bedroom. “Is there a problem?”
“No. I’m coming.” I turn back around and enter the bedroom, closing the door behind me, then engage the privacy lock.
It’s a practically useless gesture. The flimsy lock is meant to deter relatives and friends from barging into the bedroom at an inopportune moment, not keep a determined intruder at bay.
But it makes me feel better. Yet after I climb into bed, I end up lying awake despite my weariness while Sam snores softly at my side.
That’s when I hear it. The soft, barely perceptible cry of a baby floating in the darkness.
A baby that everyone claims is not in the building.
Now is my chance to prove that I’m not hearing things.
But by the time I roll over to shake Sam awake and prove that it’s real, the crying has faded yet again, and silence fills the void.