Chapter 3
Chapter three
I’d finished tucking my few clothes into drawers while Henry went down for a nap and was trying to figure out where to hang the artwork I’d brought with us when someone knocked on the apartment door.
I opened it to see a slightly hunched elderly man with a shock of wild white hair and narrow, pale-blue eyes.
“May I help you?” I asked, ignoring his scowl.
“I don’t like crumb snatchers,” he said without preamble, “and I hear you have one. I’d prefer not to hear him running around at all hours of the night, keeping me awake.”
“You must be Mr. Dean,” I replied. “Well, no need to worry, Mr. Dean. Henry doesn’t run around all night. He’s in bed by eight o’clock. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
In reply, Mr. Dean grunted and shuffled away, leaving me shaking my head.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I murmured.
So maybe not all my neighbors were going to be friendly.
I barely closed the door and had turned away when a loud pounding rattled it again. Irritated with the crochety old man, I shot a glance toward the hallway where Henry slept then yanked open the door.
“Listen, Mr. Dean—”
My words died on my tongue. The hallway was empty. I poked my head out farther, looking down the hall one way and then the other. At each end, the white curtains billowed in the cross-breeze, lifting and falling in a graceful dance.
As I peered down toward the end with the missing gate, the curtains lifted again, and just for a heartbeat, revealed a pair of bare feet before the sheer material drifted down, settling upon what appeared to be the figure of a woman.
“Be careful!” I yelled, rushing out of my apartment and toward the figure. “You’ll fall!”
But I’d only gone a few steps before the curtains lifted once more, revealing nothing but the open doorway. I stopped short, suddenly finding it difficult to move. “What the hell?”
Pushing through my momentary paralysis, I slowly backed toward the apartment, my eyes never leaving the curtains as they continued to flutter. As soon as I reached the door, I pivoted and grasped the doorknob with both hands, but it refused to turn.
Locked.
With Henry asleep inside.
“Shit!”
Instinctively, I patted my hips, immediately reminded that my sundress had no pockets. Of course. But even if it had, I now recalled the key was still on the credenza.
Right next to my phone.
I groaned and pressed my forehead to the door.
Shit, shit, shit.
I tried the door again, just in case I hadn’t turned the knob hard enough, but it refused to budge. I slammed my palm against the door several times, hoping it might wake Henry so he could let me back in.
“Henry?” I called, pounding again. “Wake up, baby. Come let Mama in!”
I pressed my ear to the door, listening for movement, but heard nothing but the soft thwap of the curtains in the breeze. I tried twice more, but sometimes when Henry was asleep, a freight train running through his bedroom couldn’t wake him.
I cursed again and leaned back against the door. The buzz of a saw droned somewhere outside. I rushed to the gated door and wrangled the curtains out of the way to see if maybe the noise was Chase working down below. But the yard was empty.
“Damn it,” I spat, sending a conflicted glance toward the apartment.
I’d have to go hunt down Chase to get him to open the door.
But what if Henry woke up while I was gone?
What if he went wandering out of the apartment to look for me?
What if he saw the barefooted woman, too, and got too close to the open door? What if—
“Stop it, Zellie!” I ordered aloud, pushing the intrusive thoughts out of my mind. The longer I waited, deliberated, imagining the worst-case scenarios, the more likely it was that Henry might wake up.
I hurried toward the elevator, glancing around nervously, not eager to encounter the person whose feet I’d seen earlier. I was a few steps from the elevator when a door creaked open behind me, bringing me up short. I swallowed hard. My stomach twisted with fear as I forced myself to turn around.
Our apartment door stood open, the stained-glass lampshades spilling dim, jeweled light into the hallway.
My steps were slow, hesitant as I approached the doorway. My heart pounded in my ears, the pulsing woosh of my blood drowning out any other sound. I tried to swallow again, but my mouth had gone dry.
When I reached the doorway, I peered cautiously inside. “Henry?”
No answer.
I placed my palm on the door and eased it open, then scanned the living room.
Nothing.
Relief loosened the knots in my stomach. “Nice, Zellie,” I muttered. “No more scary movies for you.”
I turned to close the door. And screamed.
A woman in a white nightgown stood inches away, a crimson stain across her abdomen, her bedraggled black hair caked with grime, her bare feet muddy. But it was her eyes—sunken black pools of darkness—that terrified me most.
I slammed the door, my hands shaking violently as I secured the deadbolt, then stumbled back several steps, tripping over myself and landing hard.
“What the fuck?” I screeched, my throat tight with fear.
“Mama?”
I screamed again, my head snapping toward Henry’s voice.
“What’s wrong, Mama?” Henry asked from where he stood in the hallway, his bottom lip trembling. “What happened?”
I glanced at the door, half expecting the woman on the other side to burst in, then scrambled to my feet and rushed toward Henry. I scooped him up and hurried to the credenza, grabbing my phone.
“It’s okay, baby,” I managed, my voice thin. I used my free hand to try to make the call, but the phone slipped from my fingers and landed with a thud on the floor.
With a little strangled sob, I sank down with Henry and snatched up the phone, hitting the number I’d added just that morning. As it rang, Henry studied me with wide eyes and then wrapped his arms around me and gave me a tight hug.
“It’s okay, Mama,” he whispered. “David says he’s sorry. He won’t lock you out again.”
My breath caught in my chest, and I leaned away from Henry. Now it was my turn to study him. He offered me a sweet smile, his face one of pure innocence, then kissed my cheek and hugged me again.
What the actual fuck was going on?
“Hello? Ms. Dupont? Zellie?”
Hearing my name snapped me out of my shock. “There’s someone up here,” I blurted, knowing I sounded hysterical and not giving a damn. “There’s someone in the hallway!”
Whit Proffitt wasn’t what I expected.
When he showed up at my door, Chase in tow, I was taken aback by how different they were.
The men seemed to be roughly the same age, but unlike the suave golden boy with the easy grin, Whit’s hair was as dark as his somber expression as he peered down at me, taking in every inch of me with disconcerting scrutiny, a frown furrowing his brow.
Something flickered briefly behind his dark eyes—surprise, maybe? —but he recovered quickly.
“Are you hurt?” he asked by way of greeting.
The depth of his concern brought a flush of heat to my skin. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m okay. Just freaked out.”
“Stay here,” he ordered. Then to Chase, “You start in the basement.”
As Whit made his way down the hall, I noticed that unlike his cousin, who ambled with the unconcerned confidence of someone who’d never worried about being noticed, Whit moved as quietly and as gracefully as the shadows.
There was nothing lacking in his confidence.
It was more like he didn’t want to be seen.
He was how I’d often imagined the Byronic hero in a novel by one of the Bronte sisters, a Mr. Rochester or a Heathcliff—but hopefully without the toxic manipulation or destructive rage.
It was a good thing he was my landlord; otherwise, he would’ve been exactly my type (not that I’d really even dated enough to have a type, but still…).
While Whit left to search the floor below, I leaned against the frame of my apartment door, hyperalert and nervously nibbling the skin at the edge of my thumb as I waited.
Several minutes later, he returned, his arms raised at his sides in a shrug that seemed a little bit apology, a little bit concern.
“I’m not seeing evidence anyone was here,” he said. “I checked out the other apartment down the hall and the other floors, but no one’s here that shouldn’t be.”
“Someone was here,” I assured him in a harsh whisper. “I didn’t imagine it. She was right outside my freaking door!”
Chase had sauntered up during the exchange, his thumbs casually hooked in his pockets, completely unconcerned by what I claimed.
“I’m sure my cousin isn’t saying you imagined it,” he replied.
“Just saying that maybe you misunderstood what you saw. This is an old house. Odd noises, shadows everywhere and all that.”
I pushed off the doorframe with a huff, suddenly feeling gaslighted. “Right.”
Chase grabbed my elbow as I turned to go inside the apartment, but when I sent an alarmed look to where he held my arm, he immediately let go.
“Sorry,” he said, raising both hands and glancing at his cousin before taking a step back.
“Didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just that it’s been a long day for you and your little guy. ”
“Sure,” I replied, dismissing him with a wave of my hand. “Thanks.”
“Ms. Dupont—Zellie,” Whit said, his voice going deeper when he said my name.
“I’ll personally check all the exterior doors and make sure they’re locked.
No one should be able to get into the building without a door code, but we’ll check our security cameras outside, make sure someone didn’t sneak in somehow. ”
I nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”
He stepped toward me and said more gently, “If anyone was in here, they’re gone now. You don’t need to worry.”
The nearness of him was distracting as I tried to determine if he was just placating me or if he genuinely believed what he said. Finally, I decided on the latter. “I hope you’re right.”