Deadly News: A Thriller (3 page)

She awoke, several hours later, to a great beam of sunlight attacking her eyelids. She grudgingly got up to use the bathroom, pulled the curtains shut on her way, then got some water. In her kitchen, glass of filtered water to her lips, she stared at her front door, which stood open. She squinted at it, then frowned, head tilted. Water began dripping from the glass she still held to her mouth. She set it down and wiped her face, then her hand on her jeans as she slowly walked toward the door. Her hand brushed the knife still there in the pocket, and she reached in and clutched it. Had she left the door open last night—this morning? That was scary, anyone could have come in while she was sleeping, could have—could have done anything. She didn’t live in a particularly dangerous neighborhood, but still, there were drunks to consider. Only two weeks ago her friend Patrick had come home to find a strange man in his bed, asleep. The guy had been drunk or on drugs, but harmless, and had left after Patrick had roused him. But not everyone was so innocuous.

She removed the knife, and with it still at her side, flicked it open. Her pulse was obscenely fast. She wouldn’t be getting back to sleep in the near future. Knife now slightly in front of her, she stood at the edge of the doorframe and listened. She heard nothing from the other side. Slowly, quietly, she pulled the door wide. Nothing. She listened. More nothing. She burst into the hallway, spinning so her back was against the apartment door opposite hers. There was a recognizable slamming—the stairwell door shutting—and she turned that way. No one. Then the elevator chimed. She dashed to the corner so she could get a view of the two elevators that served the building, but she reached it just as the doors shut; they were much faster than the ones at her work.

Shaken up, telling herself it was just coincidence, she quickly walked back to her apartment and shut and bolted the door. She slid the safety bar into place as well. Then she turned to face her empty apartment, dark now that she’d drawn the curtains. Was it empty? She held her breath, listening for the telltale sound, that you sense more than hear, of other life. Of something in wait.

All she heard were city sounds. She looked at the door again, contemplated opening it and going to one of her neighbors’. But then she’d feel stupid when it turned out there was no drunk pervert lurking in wait in her apartment.

She shook her head and slid her hand along the wall as she walked. After three steps, she found the light switches and flipped them all on. She had a knife, and she knew kung fu and muay Thai. She could take on a lone perv.

The light from the now banned 100-watt bulbs pained her eyes and she squinted briefly against it till her pupils got the message and settled the hell down.

There was no one there. Of course. She checked her bedroom and her ‘office’—a converted storage closet, truth be told—and found exactly what she expected, which was nothing.

Back at the couch, she tossed the knife onto the coffee table and sunk back down into a lying position, feet still on the floor, and threw her arm across her eyes.

A minute of this, and she knew she wasn’t falling asleep again. She exhaled a long whine and sat up. Elbows on knees, eyes closed and brow resting against knuckles, she sat for another minute. Then with a groan pushed herself up and toward the bathroom, peeling clothes off as she walked.

Naked, entering the bathroom, closed shower curtain looming at the edge of her view in the bathroom mirror, her heart leapt into her throat as she realized she hadn’t checked it yet. Then she remembered she’d used the bathroom earlier. If anyone was in there, they were either dead or passed out.

She discovered, unexpectedly, no corpse or sleeping creep lying curled in the tub. She turned the water on, and when steam begin to fill the room, stepped in.

Time passed.

The cold water tap was off now, hot water on full, but only lukewarm water came out. She took this as signal that her shower had gone on long enough.

She felt much better as she more gently lowered herself onto the couch, a clean fluffy bathrobe, freshly washed, wrapping her.

Her purse was on the floor, contents spilled everywhere. She picked it up, along with the contents that were within her reach without moving from her spot, then put everything on the coffee table, next to the knife and her laptop. She pulled the latter onto its rightful place, and checked her email.

She was shocked to see it was already five in the afternoon. Not bad, she thought, ten or eleven hours of sleep. She was still tired though. She didn’t really want coffee on her day off, but she might need it anyway.

She had an email from Soren, who was her current prime suspect for giving her the folder. She clicked on it and began reading:

Abby grabbed her purse from the table, her body closing the laptop’s screen as she did, and dumped it out next to her on the couch. She held it upside down and shook it, then peered inside. It was empty. She scanned the detritus on the couch next to her, then what she’d left on the floor.

The folder wasn’t there. She found herself staring at the front door.

“Wait,” you say, interrupting her story. “Someone broke into your apartment while you were sleeping, and dug through your purse and stole the folder all without you waking up?” You pass the wine bottle to the doctor. You should probably not have any more.

Abby looks away from the fire and at you. “I know, scary, huh?”

This is not what you meant, but you just say, “Yeah.”

“This is pretty good,” the thirteen-year-old says. She has just popped open the second and last bottle of wine—though there still remains a bottle of champagne—and passes it to the scruffy man. “The story, I mean. At first I thought you were like going to get on the subway when you got off work, and I was sad cause like, I knew what would happen since”—she gestures around—“you’re here and all.”

“No,” Abby says. “I took a cab. That wasn’t today. Like I said, this started a while back. And the story’s not nearly over.”

“Well go on,” the wife says, “let’s hear the rest.” Her husband passes her the nearly drained bottle. “You know,” she says to Abby, but fixing her gaze on her husband, “after you finish, I think you might want to hear our story.”

Abby’s head snaps toward the wife. “Your story? What do you mean?”

“Well, this business with the folder, the break-in. We’ve experienced something, not similar.” She tsks. “I don’t know, unusual.”

Unusual, you think. You wonder if there’s a connection here.

“Then go on,” the man with long hair says. “Finish up before we get rescued.”

Everyone chuckles at this. You think you do too, though maybe not. Sound echoes funny in here. You draw a hand across your forehead. Whether the fire in here, the number of people, or the fire outside, you don’t know, but whatever it be, it’s getting warmer.

Abby’s staring at you as she begins again, a line between her eyebrows. “So I was basically panicking at that point, but my door was locked, and I had a knife.” She laughs once. “I don’t know why, but it seemed to comfort me, that I had a weapon and wasn’t helpless. Anyway, I decided to get out of there before it got dark, so I called Ecks, who was there within minutes. He even came up to get me, which I appreciated so much I hugged him. That was my second mistake that day.”

Her third would pass by unnoticed until much later.

“Hey,” Ecks said, surprised. “Happy to see you too.”

Abby pulled away. “Jesus, you have no idea.” Standing there with the door open made Abby nervous. She peeked out past him. “I guess no one followed you?”

He raised his eyebrows, let out something like a laugh mixed with an exhalation. “I don’t think so. Should I be worried?” He looked down. “Is that a knife?”

Abby pulled him inside and shut and locked the door. “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “This is crazy. I don’t— I don’t know what to think. Let me get my stuff and we can go.”

Abby gathered her things, enough for a few days; though she didn’t know how suggesting staying at Ecks’s place would go over. He’d probably get the wrong idea. She’d worry about it when it came to that. For now, where the hell were her keys?

She dropped the knife on the coffee table and got on hands and knees to look under the couch that Ecks now sat on. As she pushed his feet to the side, then up, to make sure nothing was under them, he asked, “You going to tell me now what happened? And why were you carrying a knife? Are you a killer? You shouldn’t leave those kind of things out of your résumé.”

She looked up at him. Shook her head and sighed. “I was sleeping, I’d been up for so long yesterday that I just couldn’t even stand. I was so tired. So when I got back here, I just crashed on the couch, I was too exhausted to even change, and I must have been out pretty quickly. But I was
so tired
, that I think I forgot to lock the door—damn, I mean I might not have even shut it. So I pass out, and then hours later I wake up and I’m thirsty, so I go get some water. At this point, I’m only half awake and have every intention of going right back to sleep as soon as I finish my water. So I’m in the kitchen, and I see that the front door is open. I’m like, that’s odd. I go to shut it, and two more odd things happen.”

Her keys weren’t on the floor or under the couch. She stood with a grunt. “Up.”

Ecks stared at her. “How is ‘up’ odd?”

“No. You, up. I need to check under the cushions. Thanks. So, anyway, I’m in the hall, and I hear the stairwell-door shut. A second or two later, I hear the elevator chime. I make it just in time— Ah! There.” She grabbed the key ring wedged under the cushion against the very back of the seat, almost completely lost into the nebulous nether region of never retrieval that was the inside of her Salvation Army sofa.

She stared at the key ring in her hand, tilted her head.

“What’s wrong? Missing something? A key?”

“It’s not what’s missing.” She looked at him. “These aren’t my keys.”

“What do you mean? Whose are they?”

She shook her head, mouth open. “We need to get out of here.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

Her mouth was suddenly dry. “Ecks…” She licked her lips.

“What?” he asked with mounting irritation.

“I just remembered something. Something about summer, a few years back.” Saying this got her moving. She tossed the key ring in her empty purse and, avoiding the knife, swept the contents from off the coffee table and into it, heedless of the far too fragile glass of her phone’s screen or her laptop’s general wellbeing. “Remember a few years ago, the rape story?”

“When you first started? I wasn’t there yet, remember?”

“But you heard about it, yeah?” Abby closed the knife and shoved it into her pocket. She had pepper spray—or was it Mace?—somewhere, she thought. Another gift from her weapon-loving ex-boyfriend. Or maybe her mom, when she’d moved to the city. It was old, in any case, and she hadn’t seen it in ages, but she was pretty sure she still had it somewhere around here.

She dashed into her bedroom, Ecks trailing her, and started trashing her closet.

“Abby, calm down.”

She ignored him. Where the hell was it? As she pulled down things she hadn’t looked at in years, she was filled with an irrational hope that she’d find a handgun from her ex; a parting gift, maybe. “So, the rape story?”

“Yeah,” he said, exasperated, “everyone has.”

“Well, in his email, he mentioned it. I didn’t really think about it, but it makes sense.”

“He?”

She stopped digging and turned to look at Ecks. “Soren. The guy who gave me the folder. Did you see him?”

“No, Darla did. She gave it to me to give to you when I got in. Said it was dropped off not long before. Don’t know why she didn’t give it to you herself. I think she’s trying to set us up.”

“You think she’s not who she says?”

Ecks stares at her with a frown and mouth open. Then he shakes his head. “Jesus you’re paranoid. I mean on a date.”

“Not likely,” Abby said. The look on Ecks’s face made her feel bad. He
had
come all the way over here on a moment’s notice. Yeah, but maybe he hoped he’d be giving her more than on type of ride.

She went back to searching for the Mace. A box of old jewelry and trinkets fell to the floor, and, scattered among the bracelets and glass figurines, was a very tactical looking, very black, and very elating cylinder of burning liquid. “Yes!” She snatched the container from the floor, then shut the closet door. “Let’s go.” She grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him out of her room, which was a mess, put on her coat, shouldered her purse newly heavied with the Mace, and headed for the door.

“Oh shit.” She paused at the front door. “Please tell me you drove here.”

“Of course, public transit couldn’t get me here that quick.”

“Uber’s pretty quick. Where’s your car?”

“Out front, in a loading zone.”

“Pray it’s not towed.”

“I’m Buddhist.”

She stared at him, hand frozen on the lock, mid turn.

He sighed. “A joke.”

“Oh.”

They exited.

“Shit!” she said, punching her door as soon as she had shut it.

“You’re gonna get an aneurysm.”

“I locked the frigging door.”

“So?” He looked blankly at her.

She licked the corner of her lip, and looked back to the locked door, as though she might step back through time and undo what she just did.

“Oh, your keys. Landlord?”