Chapter 6
FRANCESCA
Ican't focus.
It's a problem when you're an ER nurse assessing a patient's chest pain for signs of an MI, but all you can think about is the way a man said your name, the way he looked at you across a coffee cup, the way he didn't kiss you when you wanted him to.
"Frankie." Jen's voice cuts through my distraction. "You with me?"
I blink and refocus on the monitor. Mr. Rodriguez is in one of the cardiac beds, presenting with substernal chest pressure radiating to his left arm. His troponin is pending, EKG showing some concerning ST changes.
"Yeah, sorry." I pull up his chart. "Let's get him to the cath lab. I'll call cardiology."
Jen gives me a look that says we're talking about this later, but she nods and heads back to the patient. I make the call, document everything, and try to get my head back in the game.
Barely into my shift and I’m forcing myself to concentrate when my brain wants to replay yesterday afternoon. The coffee date that turned into hours, the walk home with his hand on my back, the moment outside my building when I thought he was going to kiss me and he didn't.
I keep thinking about the way he smiled when I asked how he knew things about me. That smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
I'm more worried about that than I want to admit. Worried about the fact that he knows details I never told him, about the way he showed up exactly when I needed help, about how little I can find about him online, like he doesn't exist outside of the moments when he's standing in front of me.
But the thought of seeing him again is far more alluring than it should be.
My phone buzzes in my scrub pocket. I'm not supposed to check it during shift, but we're in a lull right now, so I pull it out.
Dinner tonight. 8:30. I'll pick you up.
It's not a question. It's a statement.
I stare at the text, and something swirls low in my belly—anticipation that feels too much like a warning.
Where are we going?
You'll see. Wear the black dress.
The black dress. How does he know I own a black dress? I suppose that's not much of a stretch. Every woman I know has a go-to black dress.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. I want to ask, want to call him out on the fact that he's telling me what to wear, what time to be ready, making all the decisions without asking what I want.
I should care that he's taking control, should push back, but working in a job where I'm involved in life and death scenarios where a wrong move could cost someone their life, there's something dangerously appealing about letting someone else decide.
I type
Okay
before my brain catches up, slip my phone back into my pocket and get back to work.
Later I’m finishing notes when I turn around to find Jen watching me with her arms crossed and a knowing smirk on her face.
"You're glowing," she says.
"I am not."
"You can’t stop smiling." She leans against the nurses' station. "Who is he?"
"A guy. I met him a couple of days ago."
"And?"
"We've had coffee. We're having dinner tonight."
Jen's eyes light up. "Dinner. That's a real date. What are you wearing?"
"He told me to wear the black dress."
"Ooh, he's got opinions." Jen grins. "I like it. You need this. When's the last time you went on a date?"
Before Vincent died, maybe. Back when I believed in things like safety and trust and men who didn't disappear in the middle of the night because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"It's been a while," I admit.
"Then you definitely need this." She glances at the board. "We're clear for now. Why don't you head out a little early? Go home, do the whole shower-shave-outfit thing. I'll cover."
"You sure?"
"Positive. Go. Have fun. Tell me everything tomorrow."
I grab my bag from my locker, clock out, and head for the subway. It's early enough that I have plenty of time to get ready, to figure out what "the black dress" means and whether I want to be the kind of woman who does what a man tells her.
The subway platform is crowded with the early evening rush. I find a spot near the column and wait, that familiar crawling sensation starting at the base of my skull—the feeling of being watched.
I turn, scanning the crowd.
A businessman with a briefcase. A woman with a stroller. Some teenagers clustered near the far end. A guy in a dark coat standing too motionless, but when I look directly at him, he's staring at his phone.
The train arrives and I push inside with everyone else, finding a pole to grip near the doors. The feeling doesn't leave. It gets stronger as we hurtle through the tunnel toward Hell's Kitchen.
I climb the stairs to street level. My shoulders are tight, my jaw aching from clenching.
Wrong. This is wrong.
That same crawling sensation hits me the moment I step onto my floor, but it's stronger now, more immediate, like whatever's been circling has finally gotten close.
I stop in the hallway outside my door, keys in hand.
The door looks normal—closed, locked, the same as this morning.
But I feel it anyway.
The deadbolt slides back with its usual click. I push the door open and stand in the threshold, listening.
I hear the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the radiator clanking.
I step inside and lock the door behind me out of habit.
The apartment looks untouched. The coffee mug from this morning sits in the sink.
The throw blanket is draped over the back of the couch.
A stack of mail sits on the counter where I left it.
Everything's fine.
Except it's not.
I walk through the living room slowly, trying to figure out what's bothering me. Nothing looks disturbed. Nothing's obviously wrong.
Then I see the window.
It's closed, but the curtain is pulled back differently than this morning. I always leave it slightly open on the left side because that's where the morning light comes in and I like how it hits the hardwood floors. Now it's open on the right side instead.
It could be nothing—the wind, maybe, if I'd left the window cracked.
But I didn't. It's January. It's freezing outside.
I check the lock. It's secure.
I'm being paranoid. Too many true crime podcasts, not enough sleep.
I turn away from the window and see it.
There's a book on the coffee table, a paperback I've been meaning to read. I've been using my bookmark to hold my place about halfway through. This morning it was on the left side of the table, next to my water glass.
Now it's on the right side.
And the bookmark is gone.
Pulse hammering in my throat, I cross to the table and pick up the book. I flip through the pages. The bookmark—a laminated photo of me and Vincent from before he died—isn't there.
I check the floor, under the couch, between the cushions.
It's gone.
Someone moved this book. Someone took my bookmark. Each breath feels measured, controlled. I walk toward the bedroom and push the door open.
The room looks normal. The bed is made—well, as made as I ever make it. The clothes from yesterday are draped over the chair in the corner. The dresser drawers are closed.
But the closet door is open.
I never leave the closet door open. It's a small apartment and an open door makes the space feel even smaller, so I always close it.
Now it's standing open.
I walk over slowly and pull it all the way open. My clothes hang in their usual messy arrangement. The shoes are scattered on the floor. The boxes of old stuff sit on the shelf above.
Nothing looks disturbed.
But someone had to have opened this door... didn't they?
I back out of the closet and sit down hard on the edge of the bed.
Now, I’m sure. Someone's been in my apartment.
The window curtain repositioned, the book moved to the other side of the table, the bookmark missing, the closet door left open when I always close it.
They're small things, things I could explain away individually—maybe I'm misremembering, maybe I moved the book myself this morning and forgot, maybe the wind shifted the curtain even though the window was locked.
But all of them together? That feels like more than coincidence.
Or maybe I'm losing it. Maybe exhaustion has finally caught up with me and I'm seeing patterns where there aren't any.
I should call the police. That's what you do when someone breaks into your apartment. I should file a report, get new locks, stay somewhere else for a few nights.
But what would I tell them? Someone moved my book and opened my closet? They'd think I was losing it, and I don't know that they're wrong.
I've felt this for weeks—that sensation of being watched, of not being alone even when I am. I've been dismissing it, telling myself it's grief and exhaustion from losing Vincent.
My instincts have been screaming at me.
I stand up and sweep through the apartment, checking every room, every closet, every corner, looking for anything else that's out of place, any other evidence.
In the bathroom, the hand towel is crooked. In the kitchen, one of the chairs is pulled out slightly from the table.
In the living room, there's the scent I smelled before I fell asleep last night.
Luca. Cologne.
I think about the mugging, about the guy who grabbed my purse right when Luca was nearby. The coffee date where he knew things about me I never told him. The way he showed up at exactly the right moment.
He knew my coffee order. He knew things about me. He knew I'd be walking home at that exact time on that exact street.
He knew I own a black dress. What if it wasn't coincidence? What if he's been following me? The thought solidifies into cold certainty, and I need to know.
I grab my laptop from the bedroom and open a private browser window. I've googled him before and found nothing, but I wasn't looking hard enough. I wasn't asking the right questions.
I try every combination I can think of—Luca Santoro, Luca Santoro New York, Luca Santoro Manhattan, Luca Santoro construction, Luca Santoro problem solver.
Nothing.
I add more terms—Luca Santoro arrest, Luca Santoro business, Luca Santoro LLC.
Still nothing.
I try variations of his name—Luke Santoro, Lucas Santoro, L Santoro.
Not a single result. Not one social media profile. No LinkedIn. No Facebook. No Instagram. No digital footprint whatsoever.
These days, everyone has a digital footprint. My grandmother has a Facebook page. The guy who delivers my takeout has an Instagram.
Unless you're deliberately staying invisible.
I close the laptop and press my palms against my eyes. I'm making connections that aren't there. Someone broke into my apartment and I'm scared, so I'm looking for explanations in the wrong places.
But what if my instincts have been trying to warn me and I've been too attracted to him to listen?
I walk back to the living room and stand in front of the coffee table. I stare at where the book was this morning, at the empty space where my bookmark should be. It's proof that someone was here.
I could run. I could pack a bag, go to my parents' place in Bensonhurst, text him that I'm sick and cancel dinner.
But I don't want to run. I want answers. And more than that, if I'm being honest with myself, I want to see Luca again.
If he's innocent—if someone else has been in my apartment—then I'm being paranoid and I'll apologize and we'll have dinner and everything will be fine.
And if he's not? Then I want to see his face when I ask him about it, want to watch his reaction when I tell him someone's been in my apartment, want to know the truth.
I go to the kitchen drawer where I keep the takeout menus and batteries and junk. Buried at the back is the small canister of pepper spray my dad insisted I carry. I've never used it, never even taken it out of the drawer. I take it out now and put it in my purse.
Then I go to the bedroom and stare at my closet. The black dress is hanging in the back, waiting. The heels are on the floor. I'm not wearing those.
I pull on dark jeans that fit well and a soft burgundy sweater—fitted, with a scoop neck that shows just enough skin to be flattering.
Comfortable, easy to move in, clothes I can run in if I need to.
But pretty enough for a date. I add small gold hoops, the ones my grandmother gave me, and swipe on mascara and lip gloss in the bathroom mirror.
It's a small act of defiance, choosing my own outfit instead of following his orders, but it feels important. He doesn't get to control everything, even if part of me wants to let him.
Then I sit on the couch and wait and think again about everything I've been ignoring.
How he appeared out of nowhere during the mugging, how he knew my coffee order without asking, how he seemed too perfect, too interested, too good to be true.
The feeling of being watched that started months ago.
The things moved in my apartment—the book, the chair out of place, and now today's discoveries.
The curtain. The bookmark. The closet door.
It could all be coincidence. Or none of it is, and Luca's been in my life a lot longer than a few days.
My phone is face-down on the coffee table. My hands won't stop shaking.
I'm terrified, yes. But I'm also angry—angry at him for lying, if he did, angry at myself for being so desperate for connection that I ignored every warning sign.
The knock makes me jump. My heartbeat pounds in my throat. I take the pepper spray from my purse.
"Francesca?" His voice through the door sounds calm, warm, like he's just a guy picking up his date for dinner. Like he hasn’t been in my apartment, moving my things, taking my bookmark, leaving traces of cologne in my living room.
I cross to the door and wrap my fingers around the knob. The metal is cold against my palm.
This is it. Either I'm about to confront a stalker, or I'm about to make a fool of myself with the first man I've been interested in in a long time.
Knowing all of that, I open the door.