Before #2
“Did anyone see what happened?” Brooks asked once Kito was gone. “Van was behind me.”
“I didn’t,” Richard answered.
“He was behind me, too,” Scotty said, pointing out the obvious. Everyone had been behind Scotty. All of us seemed to be having a hard time processing anything.
“Maybe he’s…” Richard couldn’t even get the whole thought out. “Maybe he’ll make it. People survive all sorts of things. And Van is…tough.”
I swallowed hard. This was awful, every part of it. And I felt like an intruder. I wanted to disappear, but it felt rude to remove myself.
Brooks shook his head. “It was at least a hundred feet. And the blood around his head. They have to get him all the way to the helipad and then…”
“Long odds,” Scotty said. “But you never know.”
“No. You don’t,” Richard said gravely. “You don’t know at all.”
* * *
I step up to the huge blank canvas, paintbrush raised. This is my favorite part, always. The moment before—when anything is possible. All hope, no limits. My pulse quickens, but it’s a good feeling this time. It’s about this moment. I’m not running from the past anymore.
I close my eyes and breathe in through my nose. Exhale forcefully. Focus on the birds in the tree outside filling my apartment with birdsong. Today I can hear them clearly, even with the windows closed.
I go to the place inside me that knows what I’m trying to say in my work, even before I do.
Then I open my eyes and draw the brush in a wide burnt-orange stripe to the right of the canvas.
Just like that, it is the edge of the horizon.
A figure in the foreground, a woman, looking off at some point in the distance. Yes, that’s right.
Bang!
A thunderous clap. Like some heavy piece of wood or metal being dropped flat from a significant height. What the hell was that?
I set down my paintbrush carefully and head toward the front door.
It must be a fallen light fixture in the hall or a piece of the ceiling—yet I feel terrified as I put my hand on the doorknob.
Then something at the back of the apartment catches my eye: my long white curtains, billowing in the breeze.
From a wide-open window. A window I definitely closed and locked the night before.
And yet there’s no doubt about it—the living room window that leads to the fire escape is wide open.
Someone has broken in. The Senator. He could be in here with me still.
I jerk the apartment door open and sprint barefoot toward the fire stairs. Bang! as the fire door shuts behind me. That’s the sound I heard—it was the fire door slamming shut behind someone.
Whoever was in my apartment went out this way. Not whoever: the Senator. Of course it was him. For all I know, he could be waiting down a flight, or up. I’m frozen on the landing, staring down at the gray-painted stairs, hand on the icy metal handrail. Go. Go. Go. Don’t just stand here.
Finally, I get my feet to move one step, then two, until I’m racing down the stairs, flight after flight.
So many, it feels like, even though I only live on the third floor.
My eyes stay locked on my feet as I run, my legs like rubber bands.
And then I sprint through our long, narrow lobby, past the row of skinny mailboxes.
Out onto East Third Street. It’s quiet that early.
Except for the birds—they are out front, too.
I stare up at my favorite tree, the full one right outside the door.
The one I can see as I lie in my bed, the leaves almost brushing my window.
It isn’t until the building door eases shut with a quiet click that I think, Keys.
But it’s already too late. I pat my white silk pajama pants.
No pockets. No keys. No phone. Then I look down at my feet—they’re bare.
I’m standing barefoot on an East Village sidewalk at dawn.
Shaking. Because who knows if the Senator is even really gone?
I need to call someone. To go somewhere. All of which would be a hell of a lot easier with my phone.
I step close to the front window of the boutique downstairs, cupping a hand around my face.
It’s quiet, dark, and empty—of course it is at this hour.
The only person in sight is a sturdy gray-haired woman walking my way with extremely cool oversize glasses and a tartan scarf tied at her neck, a little white terrier on a leash at her feet.
She’s eyeing me with thinly veiled disgust as she approaches.
Someone dressed like me at this hour is never a welcome sight in New York City. She exhales, irritated. But resigned.
“You need help?” she asks without a trace of a smile.
New Yorkers are assholes ninety-eight percent of the time. But that last two percent will save your life.
“I locked myself out,” I say, pointing to my window. “I thought someone was in my apartment, so I ran out.” It sounds stupid. Paranoid.
The woman scowls as she looks up at the windows. “I’ll call the police.” She’s already dug her phone out of her dramatically oversize jacket pocket.
“No police,” I say too forcefully. But if the Senator is already this angry, what will he do if he thinks I called the police? “I mean—I was wrong. No one is there. I forgot that I left the window open. I overreacted. Anyway, it’s a long story. I just need to reach someone who has my keys.”
“Call whoever you like, then.” She sizes me up for a beat, then hands over her phone. “I still think it should be the police. We pay their salaries. The least they can do is show up at a time like this. Instead of harassing innocent citizens.”
I call Thalia first. She doesn’t live far, and she has a set of keys.
But it just rings and rings, then finally goes to voicemail.
I send a few quick texts, too—nothing. It is only six-thirty in the morning, and Thalia often doesn’t get home from work until past three.
She’s out cold. There’s Noah, but he’s not talking to me, and asking for his help at this hour seems unwise.
The woman is staring at me harder now. I can feel it. She wants her phone back. New Yorker solidarity goes only so far. I have Richard’s number memorized. In my defense, it’s one of those that’s easy to recall—1333 are the last four digits.
My first message explains that it’s me texting from a stranger’s phone. Can I ask a favor? I then write. As soon as I hit send, I want to claw the message back.
But ellipses appear instantly, and I smile despite myself. I need to tell him about the new photo the Senator sent, anyway. The threat is escalating.
Of course. Anything. What’s going on?