Chapter 9
I talk myself into and out of my plan three times before the end of my shift. But by six o’clock, my morbid curiosity trumps my moral compass and I find myself standing in front of the old stone building, considering the best way to enter without actually breaking anything.
I’ve never noticed, but the front doors of the building are rather pretty, with intricate leafy patterns carved into solid wood.
I immediately rule out my initial plan, which was to smash the combination lock with my hammer, fearing I’d miss and accidentally take a large chunk out of one of them.
My eyes travel up, assessing my second and only other premeditated option: climbing up the wrought iron fire escape attached to the back wall of the building.
From there, I would need to pry open one of the windows and hope there’s a safe way down on the other side.
With a desire to keep from breaking both my legs, I reach for the combination lock, opting to jiggle it between my fingertips and hope the combination might suddenly come to me.
As I do, a single droplet of rain falls, landing on the bridge of my nose.
I look at the cloudless evening sky and think of Kitty, lounging on a cloud, laughing as she watches me and says, You have no imagination, darling.
I really don’t. Predictability and practicality are by far my stronger suits. But with that in mind, I pick up the combination lock, spinning the numbers until they read one-two-three-four.
Nope.
Then, the building’s address: one-two-four-three.
Another no.
I consider giving up, but then a memory surfaces.
A few months ago, I was listening to a voicemail that one of Kitty’s doctors had left for her on her cell phone. The chemo for her cancer had damaged her hearing, and she was having trouble understanding the message.
“What’s the password?” I had asked when prompted by the robotic voice.
“Zero-three-zero-five,” she had said.
I computed the date while waiting to select my next option. “March fifth? I didn’t have you pegged as a Pisces.”
I glanced over, expecting her to roll her eyes at me the same way she did when Mrs. Hail read everyone’s horoscope on Sunday mornings. But Kitty was staring at her hands.
“No. My birthday is in June.”
“Ahhh. Husband? Kid? Or secret admirer?” I teased, remembering the story of how she met Paul Anka in a Berlin airport and he supposedly sent her secret love letters for years.
But Kitty didn’t crack a smile, nor did she joke that she had too many secret admirers—how was she supposed to remember all of their birthdays? Instead, she got to her feet, her eyes drifting toward the window with its view of the lake.
“We can deal with this some other time,” she said, her eyes still on the water. “I feel like going for a long walk on the beach. I could use a little fresh air.”
With that memory still lingering, I try the same date.
Zero-three-zero-five.
The lock clicks and falls open in my hand.
I remove the chains, letting them fall to the ground with a soft clink.
Grabbing one of the handles, I brace and pull.
It takes three tugs, but then the door gives with a low grinding of its hinges.
Once again, I’m hit with a smell, but there’s no trace of perfume or summer. The air inside is musty and earthy. That stale smell of old thrift shops and basement cardboard boxes left and forgotten.
I step inside, and as my eyes adjust to the dim light, I get an overwhelming sensation of déjà vu, struck by how accurate my dream was the night before.
There, in the corner, is the ticket booth.
It is in the same spot as it was last night, although the glass has been smashed, and there is no longer a cash register inside.
The dance floor is still there, too, sunken into the center of the room, although there is no evidence of the velvet ropes that once surrounded it.
The walls are covered with spray-paint graffiti: “Tina loves Jonas” and anatomically exaggerated dicks.
I scuff the floor with my sneakers, scraping away the grime to reveal the intricately patterned travertine floor underneath.
Exactly like in the dream.
The jittery feeling I’ve had all day grows into more of a deep unease. I’m suddenly aware of my breath, which now requires complete concentration to draw. In and out. In and out.
Something weird is going on here. Something I can’t quite grasp. It’s too abstract. Too unlikely.
My jumbled thoughts are cleared by a sound.
A very distinct, very real sound of creaking wood behind me.
My unease morphs into another feeling. One far more terrifying than eerily accurate nocturnal fantasies, because this threat is very real. Someone is watching me.
I don’t know how I can tell.
As the hairs on the back of my neck begin to prickle, I am very grateful for the hammer still in my purse.
I move my hand, ever so slowly, to the zipper and slide it open.
As I slip my hand inside, I listen.
There are no more creaks. No sounds at all other than the wind outside.
Still, my fingers close around the cool metal, and I take a deep breath and pull it from my bag.
I turn, arm raised, ready to take on whomever or whatever is waiting behind me.
My gaze immediately falls on the looming frame in the doorway. As recognition sets in, I let the hammer slip from my hand and drop to the floor with a loud clang. “What are you doing here?”
Reeve steps toward me, his hands held up in front of him. “I could ask you the same thing.” He nods at the hammer lying on the floor. “And what exactly were you planning on doing with that?”
I ignore his question, pressing my hand to my chest. “You shouldn’t just sneak up on people like that. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, taking another tentative step forward. “A friend told me about this place, and then I drove by and saw the door open. I was curious. When I saw it was you, I just…”
“Watched me like a creep?”
He laughs. “That’s one way to put it.”
“What did your friend say about this place?”
He pauses as if he’s considering whether to answer me. “Just that it was a cool space with great natural light. Did you know it used to be an old dance hall?”
The prickle on my neck returns, and I leave his question unanswered.
Reeve’s gaze flicks to the hammer at my feet. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”
And I don’t plan to. “That’s really none of your business. In fact, I think I’m going to go.”
He watches while I pick up my hammer and give him a wide berth as I pass him on the way to the front door.
Just as I reach it, he calls out. “Hey, did I do something wrong?”
I stop. But I don’t turn back, and I don’t answer.
“It feels like…I don’t know…that you’re mad at me or something?” he continues. “And I guess I’m not really sure why.”
I do turn around to face him this time. Torn between laughing and throwing my hammer, not so gently, at his head.
“I don’t know how you do things where you’re from, but around here, guys generally call after they sleep with someone, at least once.
Just to make sure there isn’t a toddler running around that they don’t know about. ”
Reeve’s brow lifts. “Is there a toddler running around that I don’t know about?”
“No!” I let out a frustrated growl. “And that’s not the point.”
“I know, Jules.” He takes a step toward me. “But that’s where I’m getting very confused, because I did call. I called a lot.”
My heart stops—a full-blown halting of services as I turn over what he just said.
“You don’t need to lie to me.”
“I’m not.” He takes another step forward, pulling his phone from inside his suit jacket.
“Here. If you don’t believe me, you can look for yourself.
” He swipes his screen and then types something in, scrolling for a few seconds before turning it to face me.
“I generally take the hint after one message goes unanswered—not that it happens all that often—but I think I gave up after seven with you.”
I take the phone from his hands. There are texts. Exactly seven, just as he said, ranging from a simple Hey to What are you up to tonight? to Are you okay? I’m starting to get a little worried.
They’re time-stamped from two years ago. And my name is at the top: “Jules.”
But that can’t be right, because I didn’t receive any of them.
I click on my profile at the top, then hit info to display my details. At first glance, it looks like my number, but when I look again, I see the last two numbers are reversed.
“My number is wrong.” I finally look up. “It’s four-two-five-eight, not four-two-eight-five.”
He lets go of a long breath as he takes the phone from my hands. “Well, I guess that explains things.”
I’m not ready to accept this easy answer; it’s been too many years of resenting him in my head.
“You must have put it in wrong.”
He shakes his head. “You were the one who put it in. I thought you gave me a fake number.” He returns his phone to his suit pocket. “I even tried to find you online. There isn’t a single Jules from West Lake on X, Instagram, or even Facebook.”
He’s right.
My profile was well locked down before we even met. He has a logical answer for all of it.
“Did you ever try to find me?” he asks. “Online, I mean?”
My memories from last night come flooding back. I can feel my face growing hot. Oh, you know…just the normal, healthy level of post-sex stalking does not feel like the response I want to give right now.
“I didn’t know your last name,” I lie. “Toronto is a big city. There are more Reeves out there than you think.”
He narrows his eyes. “Really?”
I begin to back up toward the door, suddenly needing to escape. It’s like a spotlight has been flicked on, and I’m seeing all the events from the last two years in a completely different light.
However, Reeve is still looking at me the same way he did that night we first met. As if he can see all the way into my soul. And, oh, god ! Now I’m that girl who poured beer down his pants.
“I need to get going,” I tell him, suddenly stifled by the dance hall’s stale air. “I’ve got an early shift tomorrow, and what we’re doing here isn’t exactly legal, so…” I take a couple backward steps. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
I turn and move toward the door again, and this time, I make it. Pulling it open, I welcome the cool bite of the night air as I step into the parking lot and take my first deep breath in what feels like a year. Or, if I’m being perfectly honest, two.
But just as I exhale, my phone buzzes in my purse.
It’s a single buzz.
A notification.
I pull it out and look at the screen, and I get a rush of cold through my entire body as I realize how badly I’ve screwed up.
Reeve Baldwin requested to follow you.