Chapter 7
SASHA
I didn’t realize how relieved I would be for the person on the other end of this call to be Griffin until right this moment. I want to give him shit for suggesting this was some kind of helpline. But now’s not the time.
“Sasha, talk to me.” He sounds concerned.
“It’s probably nothing.”
“It’s not nothing if it feels wrong.”
That relief surges, only this time, it’s at being heard. He’s taking me seriously right away. My default is to expect the opposite.
I look around my apartment—at the keys I just tossed on the counter, the sad, under-watered spider plant hanging from a DIY hanger I made for my sister that turned out too ugly to pass on.
The slinky red dress I wore last night hanging off the side of the easy chair in my living room, waiting to be taken to the cleaners.
As I look around, I wonder if I’m losing my mind. Everything looks normal.
Then that tingling at the back of my neck comes back, and I look at the front door.
“I don’t know—I just got home, and something feels…off.”
“Where are you?” His voice is strangely muffled.
“I’m at home. I just got back from seeing some friends.
” It wasn’t a great afternoon, to be honest. The women at the table weren’t how I remembered.
They spoke about their partners, who are all Wall Street or trust fund types.
They showed off their engagement rings. And aside from my undergrad roommate Hillary asking me a cursory question about London before someone else interrupted with their recent London experience, most of them only seemed interested in whether any of the rumors about Sam were true.
I pretended I wasn’t feeling well and skipped out on our plans to go to a show.
Except now I suddenly wish I stuck with them.
I feel stupid now, explaining it. But I tell Griffin about the jittery feeling in my stomach that came on when I rounded the corner onto my block and how it got more acute when I walked into my building a minute ago.
“It felt like someone was watching me, even though I looked back through the door to the street and no one was there.”
“No one?”
“I mean, just my doorman. He was on the phone with his wife. She’s eight months pregnant. He waved at me, but that was it. There wasn’t even anyone on the sidewalk outside. Oh, except Mrs. Bishop, but she lives on my floor. She was just taking her dog for a pee.”
“Sasha, I want you to listen to me carefully.”
My stomach drops. “Okay.”
“It’s probably nothing, but it might be something. And I’m not willing to risk the small chance that it is.”
Suddenly, having the strange feeling validated makes this feel real.
“I want you to grab whatever you need that’s within reaching distance.”
“What?”
“Grab your purse, your phone, your keys. That’s it.”
My stomach roils, my heart thudding so loud I can feel it in my throat. “Griffin—”
“Now, Sasha. I’m on my way to you, but I’m at least twenty minutes out.” I hear the faint rev of an engine. He’s on the road.
“Okay.” I swallow. I can do this. “Okay. Should I call you when—”
“No, don’t hang up. Tell me when you’re ready to leave.”
The only thing I’m not already carrying is my key ring, so I swipe it off the counter and move to the door. I hesitate. “One sec.”
I run to my bedroom and yank open the closet door. Reaching up on the top shelf, I pat around with my hand until I find the item I’m looking for. I stuff it into my pocket.
I run back out of the room, ignoring everything I should probably grab, like my passport and jewelry. “I’m ready.”
“Good. Look out your peephole. Is there anyone there?”
My throat is dry. I swallow, squinting into the hole. Nothing but the wallpaper on the opposite side of the hallway. “No. Fuck, Griffin, I wish I weren’t alone.”
“It’s okay. I’m here. Now, open the door slowly and look down the hallway toward the closest stairwell first, then the other direction.”
The door opens with a soft brushing sound across the entryway carpet. I do as he says. In either direction, the hallway is clear. Then the slightest movement catches my eye.
The elevator’s twenty feet away from me, in the middle of the building on the opposite wall. The lights are blinking up floor by floor.
My stomach drops. “There’s someone in the elevator,” I whisper, even though they’re several floors down and couldn’t possibly hear me.
“How many floors away?” His voice is urgent.
“Nine. No, eight.”
“Run for the far stairwell if you have time. If not, the close one.”
I gauge the distance, then sprint for the far door. “Okay,” I say, my voice choppy with each footstep.
“Get inside and out of sight immediately. Then close the door quietly and—”
“Shit,” I whisper.
The elevator dings. I miscalculated.
I jump into the nearest doorway. They’re set in a foot and a half from the hallway, but it’s enough space to conceal me.
The elevator doors swoosh open, and I sense more than hear footfalls on the thick carpet.
“Are you in the stairwell?” Griffin asks. He’s whispering.
“Yes. Almost.”
He curses. “If you’re out of sight, stay perfectly still. Don’t move.”
It’s probably just Mrs. Bishop. It has to be her—she was just outside with Percy, her happy poodle. But I can’t help but look. I need to know if I’m safe. I inch my face out past the edge of the wall.
When I see who’s there, standing in front of my apartment, my stomach turns to stone. “Griffin,” I whisper, pulling myself back into the indent. I’m barely breathing. “It’s Vincent’s guy.”
My throat constricts with panic. There was no mistaking him. Same hulking shape. Same thick, dark jacket, even though it’s only early September.
Vincent’s words echo in my brain. You owe me, Sasha Macklin.
A cold shimmy of panic threatens to overtake me, but I clench my jaw, refusing to let it. I breathe hard. Okay. I’m okay.
“Yes, Sasha, you’re going to be okay. But you need to listen very carefully. I need you to stay very, very still. Do not move.”
I didn’t realize I said that out loud.
But there’s a click from down the hall, and I know I need to look.
I’ve never been great at following instructions.
I sneak my head out again, knowing I’m probably risking my life, only to see my door closing behind him.
I don’t need Griffin to tell me what to do next.
I run.
I close the stairwell door behind me as softly as I can, telling Griffin what I’m doing. My shoes are off, and I’m skidding down the stairs, taking three at a time.
“Maybe I should go to John’s apartment; he’s on the fifth floor. I—”
“No. Keep going. Faster than you think you can, but don’t let go of that handrail unless you hear the door open overhead.
If you do, I want you to press yourself up against the wall, you understand?
Out of sight if someone looks down.” The engine revs again.
“I’m ten minutes away. Once you get outside, you need to get around the corner, out of sight, and if you see a cab, you jump in it, okay?
Tell them to take you to…Union Square. Say you’re late. ”
I’m breathing hard, taking in everything he’s saying but also leaping down the stairs in threes, adrenaline carrying me faster than I think I’ve ever gone before. My purse slaps against my hip, impossibly loud.
“What if there’s no cab?” I ask. I’m on the fifth floor now—John’s apartment is right there. I could hide. The guy would never know—
A door opens overhead.
“Shit!” I land with a slap of feet on the third-floor landing and scramble backward against the wall. For a moment, there’s no sound. I imagine the guy leaning out over the railing, looking down. I shift.
Then there’s a loud clink as my keys fall out of my sweaty hand. I hadn’t realized I was still holding them.
The door up top bangs against the wall.
A shuffle of feet.
“Oh fuck!” I whisper. I yank on the handle of the third-floor door before remembering it’s passcode controlled. I scoop up my keys, the sound of them scraping on concrete impossibly loud.
I wave the fob in front of the mag lock, my hand shaking. The door clicks open, and I sprint down the carpeted stairwell.
“Where are you?” Griff practically growls.
“Stairs,” I pant. “To the parkade. Third floor. I’m running down—can’t talk.” I’m running too hard to breathe, let alone narrate where I’m going. I lower my arms, using them to propel my body forward.
I jump in front of the stairwell door, swinging my keys once more. The light stays red for a sickening second. I do it again.
It flashes green.
I rip the door open. I take the stairs a half flight at a time, swinging on the railings. I hit the bottom with a crash. I race for the far door that leads up a flight of exterior stairs.
“Sash!” Griff is yelling, his voice tinny from my phone. I bring it up to my ear again.
“I’m here! I’m outside!” My bare feet slap against the asphalt.
He says something I can’t hear, that maybe wasn’t meant for me, then clearly into the phone, “Get out of sight! I’m close now, five blocks.”
I round the corner onto the street. There’s a cab, but its light isn’t on. I race for it anyway, but it’s too fast. It disappears around the next corner. “No free cabs!” My voice is panicky now.
“Is there a shop nearby you can get into?”
I scan the street wildly. There’s a dollar store on the corner. “Yes.” I run. My foot lands on something sharp, and I cry out.
“Sasha!”
“I’m fine!” I keep going, only limping a little, shaking out whatever it was. I don’t think I’m cut.
“Don’t run when you get inside the store.”
I hurl myself up to the door but force myself to open the door calmly. I step inside, breathing slowly even as I’m desperate to catch my breath.
It’s an off-brand dollar store, the kind where nothing is remotely close to a dollar. The shelves are lined with cheap trinkets and plastic dinnerware. I smile at the woman behind the counter, but she doesn’t look up. She’s leaning back in her bar-stool chair. A laugh track sounds.
I don’t waste a second, just walk calmly but quickly toward the back of the shop. I glance back at the woman, but I can’t even see her from here.
I slip into the dingy hallway at the back. There’s a closed door on one side and another across from it. The one door is ajar. There’s a man on a computer in there, his face angled slightly away from me. I slip past, silent on my bare feet, and pull open the back door.
It clicks shut behind me a moment before I wonder if I should have propped it open.
What if the guy runs back here? To my left, the alley opens up onto a busy street. I don’t even know which one it is. I tuck myself around the other side of the dumpster next to me so I’m not visible from the street. The other end of the alley ends on a quieter side street.
“I’m in the back,” I whisper. It’s dingy and smells like trash. There’s a stained mattress propped up against the opposite wall.
I describe my location when Griffin asks, and he makes a small sound of affirmation.
Then, because I think I might pass out, I lower the phone, pressing it against my chest. I lean against the wall, my hair snagging on the brick. I close my eyes and see, out of nowhere, the trees in Vermont.
I was so jumpy at Eli and Reese’s wedding—it was right after that paparazzo had gotten into my building. But it wasn’t fear like I feel now. It was just nerves. Concern that the media was going to catch me out, and then what if I said something that hurt Sam?
I blink my eyes open. God, how could I have cared so much about protecting him?
Bitter tears blur my vision. I close my eyes again, picturing the twirling of the leaves on that walk to the wedding site. The dappled sunlight, the way the sun shone down and warmed my skin. The quiet peacefulness of the day with the murmur of the wedding still in the distance.
I was worried, but I was safe. That place—some version of that place—that’s where I want to be. Away from the snapping cameras and gold-toothed criminals. Away from my family, whose minds I’m never on anyway.
A door slams open somewhere farther down the alley, making me jump.
A man with a garbage bag comes out. He does a double take when he sees me. “Miss?”
My heart thumps. But just then, a roaring engine sounds, a motorcycle skidding around the corner. It comes to a hard stop in front of me.
Griffin flips his visor open, his eyes meeting mine.
Relief crashes through me, and the tears spill like a waterfall. I sob. “Griff—Griffin—”
Griffin takes my hand, pulling me to him. “It’s okay, Sasha. You’re okay.”
I want to melt into him—I try to, but he’s gently urging me around behind him. “We can’t stay here.” He reaches for the helmet strapped there, expertly flipping the strap open with his fingers and handing it to me.
I nod, my words gone now, and take it from him, pulling it over my head.
The world goes silent for a moment, then he does something to the bottom of my helmet, and his voice sounds in stereo. “Can you hear me?”
I nod.
He pulls off his jacket, hooking it over my shoulders. “Put your arms through.”
It’s hot out, but I’m shivering, and the jacket feels warm and like a second person holding on to me. Another Griffin.
“I need…” I croak, but I can’t form words. I’m trying to say shoes—I lost my shoes at some point—in the stairwell? On the street? I have no idea where. Instead, I clear my throat and say, “I need you to take me away.”
“That’s the plan, Angel,” he says. “Hold on.”
I snake my arms around him, resting my helmeted head against his back. Then we’re turning around, moving toward the road. A moment later, we explode out, joining the busy traffic.
We move fast, leaving all this behind.