Chapter 1 #3
During the rest of our walk to my apartment, located in a pre-war building on the Upper East Side, we continue our conversation, shifting from the topic of my work to his.
I love hearing about Micah’s job. It’s just so interesting, how he trains the dogs for different specialities, from tracking to explosive detection to personal security.
When we’re not walking on a crowded sidewalk, he’ll even show me photos of the dogs he works with—there’s Burke, who specializes in suspect apprehension and handler protection, Fluff, who’s trained as a tracker, and Cooper, who can detect drugs and explosives in a couple of sniffs.
Oh, and there’s Micah’s own dog, Sampson, who’s also trained in personal security.
Tonight, Micah tells me about a new dog they’ve just started working with, Daisy.
She’s only six months old, so she’s too young for specialized training.
Right now, they’re just working with her doing basic obedience.
Micah has me laughing at Daisy’s hijinks, like sneaking into the Fox after I thank him for walking with me, I offer a weak, “You know, you don’t have to walk me home after class.
I really appreciate it, but it’s out of your way. And now you have to go back—”
“I don’t mind,” he interrupts. “And it’s not out of my way.”
I punch in the access code for the building before replying, “Of course it’s out of your way. Our class is in Midtown. Then you walked with me all the way to the Upper East Side. And now you have to turn around and go back to basically where we started.”
Micah waits for me to open the door and follows me inside. “Not quite. My apartment is on Lexington. The class is over on 6th.”
“Close enough.” I hold his gaze. “I appreciate it. I really do. I just feel bad. By the time you get home, it’ll be nine-thirty, and you said you’re usually up by five...”
“Ruby.” His features sober. “I don’t mind. First off, I like walking. It’s good exercise. And I enjoy walking with you.”
Before I can respond, he adds, “Plus, I don’t like the idea of you walking home alone at night. I don’t care that it’s the city, and thousands of women do it. You’re not thousands of women. You’re my friend, and I want to make sure you’re safe.”
Oh.
Any other arguments I had deflate.
And really, I do feel safer when Micah walks me home. I just feel bad, like I’m taking advantage of him. But if he’s insisting…
“Okay,” I concede. “But I don’t want you to feel obligated. If you have plans, or you’re just not feeling up to it…”
“That reminds me,” he says, “it’s getting dark so early now, I was thinking I could pick you up as well. What time do you usually leave for class?”
“Micah, you don’t need to do that. There are plenty of people on the street at that time. Nothing’s going to happen—”
“You don’t know that.” His eyes turn a deep, stormy blue. “A friend of mine was attacked right on the street. Not at midnight, or three in the morning, but evening. When there were plenty of people around. It can happen anytime, Ruby. Anywhere.”
A small shudder grips me. “Oh.”
“I’m not trying to scare you,” Micah continues. “But it’s not a big deal coming to get you. And I’d feel better, knowing you’re safe.” His lips tug into a half-smile. “So, really, you’d be helping me out by saying yes.”
I could argue with him. Insist that I’ve been walking in New York City for ten years and I’ve been just fine. But what would be the point? I’d just make things weird between us and come off as ungrateful.
So instead, I just nod. “Okay.”
“Good.” His smile brightens, and he gives my upper arm a little squeeze. “So I’ll be here next Tuesday at”—he raises his brows at me—“five-twenty? Five-thirty?”
“Five-twenty. I like to get there a little early. If that’s okay.”
Micah holds my gaze. “Five-twenty is perfect.” He stops to think. “You still have my number, right? In case you need to change the time? Or cancel?”
“I do.” We exchanged numbers a few weeks ago, although neither of us has texted or called each other since then.
“Great.” He gives my arm another little squeeze. “Alright. I’d better get home. Sampson will want to go out for his nighttime walk. You okay going up to your apartment by yourself?”
“Of course.” It’s not a doorman building, but it’s got plenty of security. And my neighbors are really good about not letting anyone inside who doesn’t belong here. “Have a good night. And thanks again for walking me home.”
After I’ve said goodbye to Micah and checked my mail, I head up the stairs to my fourth-floor apartment. We have an elevator, but it’s finicky at best, and I’d rather not spend the next hour trapped inside while I wait for the mechanic to fix it.
As I hurry up the stairs, I have a fleeting thought of wishing I’d asked Micah to come up with me. Not necessarily to come inside, but just to walk me up there. I don’t really think anyone is lurking in the stairwell, waiting to attack me, but his story about his friend was a little unsettling.
But I make it to the fourth-floor without incident, albeit a little out of breath from rushing up the stairs faster than I usually do. Once I’m in the well-lit hallway, I let out a little sigh of relief.
At my door, I unlock the doorknob and deadbolt before letting myself in. The lights are all off, which isn’t unusual, since I often forget to leave a light on when I leave.
I should get one of those smart plugs, I think. Set a timer so the living room light always comes on at sundown. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about leaving the light on at all.
The first niggle of fear comes when I flick the light switch and nothing comes on.
Frowning, I hit the switch a few more times. Nothing.
But the bulb could have blown. When’s the last time I changed it, after all? I can’t even remember. So it’s not a surprise that it’s blown.
Some light filters through the blind on the living room window; not a lot, since they’re meant to block most of the light, but enough for me to make my way across the room to the lamp beside the couch.
Except the lamp beside the couch doesn’t work, either.
The fear isn’t a niggle anymore. It’s right there, fully-grown.
My pulse jumps. Cold prickles race across my body. A terrible dread closes in, cold and suffocating.
But it’s nothing. Just a fluke. Lights stop working all the time. It doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.
Besides, my door was locked. If someone had broken in, I’d know.
With that reassurance in mind, I square my shoulders and reach into my purse for my phone. Once I retrieve it, I press the button to turn on the flashlight and hold it up to brighten the room.
At first, everything looks normal.
Then something moves. Something big.
A second later, a heavy weight crashes into me, knocking me to the ground. All the air in my lungs whooshes out, leaving me gasping.
My phone is wrenched out of my hand and flung across the room.
Even as everything is still registering, a large body climbs on top of me, pinning me down.
Terror like nothing I’ve felt surges through me.
I try to scream, but all that comes out is a breathless wheeze.
A hand comes over my mouth; hot and damp and smelling of sweat. The man—I think it’s a man, given his size—digs his fingers into my cheek and jaw in a punishing grip.
As realization hits, I start fighting. Wriggling. Bucking. Kicking. But the man is too big. Too heavy. I can’t get him to budge.
Panic claws inside my chest.
My heart feels like it’s about to explode.
No! a terrified voice cries silently. No! This can’t be happening. Not here.
But it is.
Someone’s inside my apartment. On top of me. Suffocating me.
Do something! the voice begs. Anything!
So I keep fighting. Struggling. Even though nothing I do seems to work.
My head is getting fuzzy from lack of oxygen, and bright spots edge into my vision. I look up into the face of my attacker, but all I see is a dark mask, covering everything.
He chuckles; a dark, oily sound.
Anger pierces my terror.
How dare he laugh? How dare he?
Then a spark of an idea hits, and I bite into his palm as hard as I can.
Coppery blood fills my mouth.
He yelps and pulls his hand away.
And with the little air I have left, I scream.