Chapter 64
Sunday morning feels weird. Actually, it feels like I’m trapped in a strange alternate reality where everything is the opposite of what it should be.
Just a few short weeks ago, Sam and I were moving into the Glendale, and I wasn’t even considering a future where he was no longer a part of my life, but now that unimaginable future stretches ahead of me like a long, dark tunnel, and unlike the trite old phrase, I see no light at the end.
Now that the initial shock has faded, I wander the apartment, barely able to comprehend how our perfect future could have turned so toxic in such a short time. Of course, the reason is obvious.
Kalina.
I make coffee, more out of habit than anything else, then sit at the kitchen island.
The coffee is awful. I might as well be drinking sludge.
It’s like even my taste buds have abandoned me.
I give up and pour what’s left down the sink, then distract myself with housework, because the alternative is to wallow in my pain.
I scrub down the countertops and unload the dishwasher.
I vacuum and dust and put stuff away in a mad attempt to keep busy.
At one point, my mother calls, but I ignore it.
An hour later, there’s another call. This time it’s Dawn.
I ignore that one, too. I’m not in the mood to talk right now.
Then, at four in the afternoon, the phone rings again.
It’s Sam. Needless to say, I let it go to voicemail—if I wasn’t picking up for anyone else, I’m sure as hell not answering that call.
He leaves a message, but I don’t listen to it.
Instead, I head for the main bedroom’s walk-in closet and the stack of boxes in the back corner we haven’t yet gotten around to unpacking.
I grab one with Bathroom written on the top in black marker and lug it into the en suite.
It might seem like unpacking our belongings right now is futile.
After what’s happened. I don’t even know if I’ll still be living in this apartment a month from now.
We bought into the Glendale as a couple, and even though we are not officially allowed to sell for five years, there must be some provision for a situation like ours.
I remember Jennifer and Frank saying that the previous occupants of this unit were allowed to sell early and move out because their circumstances changed.
But I need to do something—anything—to keep myself from falling into a pit of despair, and I’ve exhausted all the other household busywork.
The box contains towels, washcloths, and other assorted bathroom paraphernalia that we probably won’t need.
We’ve collected so many towels since we’ve been living together that I’m not sure why we even bothered keeping these.
Most of them are old, and they’re not our favorites.
I should probably just bundle them back into the box and take them to Goodwill.
But that’s a decision for another day. I put everything away, break the box down, then head back to get another.
The next two boxes are full of place mats, table runners, and napkins that belonged to my parents.
My mother gave them to us when we moved in here, since we finally had a real dining room.
Most of them aren’t my style, which is why I’ve been ignoring this box.
The obvious place to store it all is the built-in cabinet that takes up half of one wall of the dining room.
The top part of the cabinet has shelves behind glass doors, but the rest is drawers.
I heave the boxes into the dining room. I open the first box, grab a pile of place mats, and stuff them in the top drawer, then put a bunch more in the drawer below.
The third drawer won’t budge when I pull on it.
I tug harder but still only manage to get it open halfway before the drawer jams and refuses to move in either direction.
I curse and turn my attention to the lowest drawer before filling it with the last of the place mats.
A gold-and-red Christmas set and another, even uglier set with Santa Claus dashing across them in his sleigh.
They are ugly, and I doubt I’ll ever use them, but at least I can close the drawer and avoid ever looking at them.
Except that I can’t, because the drawer refuses to shut. It goes part of the way in and then stops. But it’s not stuck like the drawer above. Something behind it in the cabinet is preventing the drawer from closing.
Frustrated, I tug it back out. The cabinet is old and has probably been here since the Glendale was built, so it doesn’t take much effort to slide the drawer off its runners and remove it completely.
I set it aside and lie flat on the floor, peering into the gap to find the obstruction.
And that’s when I see the spiral-bound notebook.
It must have been in a drawer at some point and fallen down the back of the cabinet.
I grab for the notebook, ignoring the silky touch of spiderwebs on my fingers and something small with too many legs that scuttles away when my hand brushes against it. I suppress a shudder and pull the notebook free from its dark prison.
With a grunt of satisfaction, I push myself up and sit cross-legged on the floor to examine my prize.
The notebook looks like it’s been there for a long time.
A critter, possibly a mouse, has nibbled at the edges on one side.
Cobwebs cling to the cover. When I open the notebook, I see a page full of scrawling, hurried handwriting.
And at the top is a date—June 4. There is no year.
Several small hard black pellets drop from between the pages onto the floor.
Roach droppings. Ick. But that isn’t what causes me to almost let go of the notebook and scoot backward in fright.
It’s what I see written below the date in scratchy blue ink.
Someone is watching me, and I don’t feel safe here anymore.