9. Chapter 9
LONDYN
MY APARTMENT FEELS SMALLER WITH them here.
Two men, moving through my space, studying my walls and windows and doors. Opening blinds. Touching things. Looking at 'access points' and measuring the dimensions of my life for 'vulnerabilities.'
They're pointing out a lot of weak spots I never noticed despite my own hypervigilance.
I feel dumb. How did I not notice these things?
"The locks on your front door are solid," Sean says, examining the three deadbolts that make me feel a little safer at night.
His long fingers trace along the edge of the door frame, which is a bit old with crumbling paint.
"The strike plate could be reinforced. It's the weakest point if someone tried to kick in the door. "
I nod, hands clasped in front of me, trying to focus on his words instead of the eerie specter of The Director I still see.
"We'll add a wireless camera system," Sean continues.
"We already talked with your building manager.
He approved our interior setup, but said no for anything outside.
We can position a camera in the hallway outside your front door.
We'll leave your video doorbell as it is.
Then one covering your living room with a view of the entry.
Another facing the bedroom. And if you're comfortable with it, one at your bedroom window, facing out, since it has access to the fire escape. "
I flinch at the mention of my bedroom. Privacy is my oxygen. The thought of a camera there, even just facing the window, sends a tight coil of anxiety spiraling through my chest.
But… I expected as much. Someone could get through that window if they really wanted to.
I nod.
"I'd recommend reinforcing the bedroom window lock too," he adds.
I nod again. Why didn't I think of that? "Whatever you think will help. Funds aren't an issue." I choke on those last words because funds kind of are an issue. The money I'm dipping into is supposed to be for retirement.
Strangely enough, when Sean told me the estimated cost I was shocked because it's really affordable. Based on my Internet research, I was expecting it to cost something like thirty grand. Yet, renting the apartment next door is my biggest expense.
The numbers don't quite add up. I spent hours calculating security costs on spreadsheets, preparing myself for the financial blow to my 401K.
Then Sean mentioned something about a 'client assistance program.
' I guess NexaProtect has some sort of sliding scale.
When I pressed for details, his eyes darted away for a split second before he explained that I qualified for their reduced-rate protection services because of the situation.
It's strange, but I'm not about to question this unexpected gift horse. If NexaProtect wants to protect me at a fraction of the market rate, I'll take it. The alternative is being alone with my ghosts, my mace, and my spiraling thoughts.
I've lived in that particular hell long enough. I'm just grateful this momentary insanity of mine won't kill my savings.
Mike chimes in from where he's examining my living room windows. "These have the standard latches. Pretty easy to jimmie from outside if someone knows what they're doing."
My throat tightens because I thought that window was pretty safe. "Isn't it too far away from the fire escape?"
Sean crosses the room then glances out the window.
"There's a ledge that's wide enough to walk and it looks pretty solid.
You're facing the alley and you're only three stories up.
Someone could bring a ladder if they were really determined.
" He glances at me, likely noticing how pale I've become.
He flashes a gentle smile that smoothes the sharper angles of his cheeks.
"Don't worry. We'll make sure everything's secure. "
Don't worry. As if worry isn't the background noise of my entire existence. Why did I pick this apartment floor plan?
They continue their assessment, moving from room to room, then Mike pulls out his phone. "We need to discuss your schedule. Daily routines, work commute, any regular appointments."
"I… don't really have much of a schedule," I admit. "Normally, I split my time between home and office."
"When you go out, what routes do you take?" Sean asks. "Any variation or always the same?"
"Um, always the same. I take the subway. Walk. I visit the same coffee shop in the morning when I go to the office. Same route coming home."
Mike nods and makes a note as I'm mentally scolding myself for falling into such a predictable lifestyle. I should've been mixing up my schedule, making it harder for someone to track me. I've become too complacent.
I glance over. Sean gives a small smile, something I've noticed he does every time I actually meet his eyes. "It's normal," he says.
"What is?"
"Having a daily routine. Completely normal. If someone's stalking you, it's not your fault."
Not my fault.
My therapist must've told me that a thousand times.
I'd tell her I felt like it was my fault The Director got such evil thoughts.
It was the skimpy clothes they made my character wear, or me agreeing to hang out with him after work, or trying to be polite when he gave me feedback so I wouldn't get fired.
"It's not your fault, Londyn."
I can't fully accept that. At the minimum, it's my fault for ever auditioning for that role. How might my life be different and better if I'd never gotten that part?
"It's not," Sean says again and my eyes dart back to his. There's that little, handsome smile just for me.
My cheeks flush in embarrassment. How does he seem to know my thoughts?
"Do you have a romantic partner?" Mike asks.
"Um, no. I use a dating app occasionally."
"What about social engagements? Friends who visit? Places you like to go?"
I glance at my second bodyguard, who seems like a guy who'd be the life of the party. Mike seems like someone who enjoys hosting and probably has tons of friends. I already know he's happily married, so my lack of everything must look pretty pathetic.
I stare at my bookcase, suddenly fascinated by a microscopic scuff on a shelf edge. I shake my head, answering all his questions at once. "I don't really… do social things."
"Same," Sean says through a chuckle, but it's like he's laughing at himself rather than at me. When I caution a glance his way, he says, " Ugh , people."
I grin. I like that we have an inside joke already. "I do have one friend," I tell him. "So I'm not a complete social outcast. But she's in Australia. We talk online."
"Yeah, I have… a good friend myself. Two of them now. It's good to have someone who notices when you're hibernating too long."
"It is. Not everyone is intolerable."
He laughs, and I'm realizing I love making him do that. All the anxiety I had before they arrived has mellowed out, and it's because of each little, gentle smile Sean sends my way. Also, his natural charm and ability to lighten the mood.
"You're really good at reading people," I blurt out. I'm expecting him to say something funny or give me a knowing look, but he surprises me.
The corners of his lips melt downward like they're being washed away in the rain, and his gaze becomes vacant, as if he's no longer seeing me but someone else.
Who did I become inside his mind?
He turns to Mike, our warm moment replaced by professional distance suddenly. "We should discuss expectations," he says and Mike nods.
Mike gestures toward my couch. "Mind if we sit?"
"Oh, uh, the bathroom," I say. "We didn't discuss putting a camera in there."
Sean and Mike exchange a glance.
"We don't usually put cameras in the bathroom," Mike says.
"But there's a window," I protest, hearing the note of desperation creeping into my voice. "Someone could climb in. It needs to be covered too."
Mike's eyebrows lift. Sean's expression remains neutral.
"I know I sound crazy."
"Wanting to be safe isn't crazy," Sean counters immediately. "It's survival. It's good to pick up on threats others miss."
I like that he said that. My therapist said similar things, but hearing it from someone like Sean—someone whose job is literally looking for threats—makes it land differently.
"Thanks," I say, though I'm not exactly sure what I'm thanking him for. Being understood?
"Let's take another look," Sean says after a beat.
I lead them down the short hallway to my bathroom, passing through my minimalist bedroom where baggy clothes are draped over a dresser and scattered on the floor.
The small bathroom feels absurdly cramped with three people, the faded floral shower curtain and single bare bulb overhead making everything feel smaller than it already is.
I press myself against the sink, creating as much distance as possible between our bodies.
Mike waits by the door while Sean moves to the window. It's white-framed, frosted glass, and about three feet square. He examines it carefully. His fingers trace the latch and test the frame. He's frowning.
"First," he says, "this window is small. An adult would have some difficulty getting through."
"But it's not impossible," I say.
"Second, and more importantly," he continues, meeting my eyes in the mirror's reflection rather than turning to face me—a small courtesy that doesn't go unnoticed—"a camera in the bathroom is an invasion of privacy we don't recommend."
"But someone could get through there, right?"
Crazy. I'm totally crazy, no matter how nicely Sean tries to frame it.
He turns, his brown eyes searching mine. I wonder what he's thinking. Is he regretting taking this job? Or realizing I'm more neurotic than he bargained for? I hinted that it was just a run-of-the-mill stalker, someone I might be imagining, but now my true level of fear is showing itself.