Page 81 of The Unraveling

Frantic, I pick up my cell. My hand trembles as I swipe to my contacts and move to my bedroom. My apartment is suddenly very large. Very empty. More than anything, I need a familiar voice. Irina? Can I call her after all this time? We were good friends at one point. I need someone I can trust to share this secret with. Someone I can go to, who will let me sleep in their spare bedroom. Because I can’t stay here. Not tonight. Not alone. Irina will have to do.

I scroll down to her name and press call, while simultaneously grabbing the first gym bag I come across and start throwing necessities in—underwear, a change of clothes, shoes. The phone rings and rings before eventually rolling to voicemail.

“Damn it,” I mutter. I throw the phone on the bed.

He knows where I live. He knows where I work. He’s followed me repeatedly.

I’m not stalking him.

He’s stalking me.

And I have no damn clue what his endgame is—mine was originally to help him. Well, maybe not at first. At first I was curious. How was he smiling? Laughing? But I knew it was a facade. He had to be in pain. And I needed to see it. I needed to feel his pain, deserved to suffer with him. And I had, during our sessions. But then I thought I could help. Repent, maybe. Find a way to help him deal with his grief. But maybe he already had one—seeking revenge. On me.

No, no, no. If he wanted to hurt me, he’d have done that by now, right?

I stand perfectly still, a pair of pants in my hand, gaze unfocused, trying to understand. It’s true, isn’t it? If his goal was to hurt me—to make me suffer—he could have done that by now. He’s had plenty of opportunity. He could have physically harmed me, or gotten my license taken away again. But he didn’t.

Which makes me question what his plan is, if not to hurt me. What he wants from me.

I swallow. Zip up the bag. Snatch my phone and speed-dial Sarah.

Her voice is groggy, but I don’t stop to consider the time. I just start barking into the phone. “Hello? Sarah? Cancel all future appointments with Mr. Wright. No. No, I don’t want to discuss it. I don’t care what you tell him. Just cancel them.”

I disconnect and check the peephole at the front door.

No Gabriel.

I ease the door open, hurry down the hall, and burst out of the building. I don’t know where I’m headed, but it will be somewhere he can’t find me.

CHAPTER 34 Now

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I’ve been in this office for more than five years, but I’ve never heard the clock ticking before. Someone had to have made it louder. Did Sarah replace the batteries and the mechanics are suddenly firing on all cylinders? I stare at the second hand, watching its stuttering jumps from number to number and wondering if I’m going out of my mind. It’s entirely possible I’m in the midst of a nervous breakdown and don’t even know it. I think back to my first or second year of medical school, what the thick psychiatry textbook said were the classic symptoms of a break from reality.

Nervousness. If the constant bounce of my leg isn’t confirmation enough, then the way I jumped when the hotel clerk said good morning to me today might seal the deal. Yes, I’m still staying at a hotel nearly a week later. One so far uptown I’m practically in the Bronx. The morning Uber ride in traffic takes me nearly forty-five minutes. But I won’t take the train because Gabriel might see me.

Loss of appetite. An easy check mark, considering I can’t remember the last time I put anything in my body other than copious amounts of coffee and wine.

Withdrawing from family and friends. I suppose I started this one the day after Connor died. I was too ashamed to face people then, even more so now. I mean, what would I tell people who ask what I’ve been up to? Oh, not much. Just following the husband of the woman my husband killed. Actually, I’m not sure if I’m the stalker or the stalkee, but whatever. We fuck now, too. My only real communication has been with my brother, Jake, and Sarah. But I haven’t returned Jake’s last three calls, and lately I’ve been holed up in my office, avoiding even my assistant.

Insomnia. Sleep? What’s that?

Addiction. Self-medicating and alcohol abuse. Addicts smoke crack and drink four-dollar bottles of vodka in plastic bottles. The bottle and a half of wine I consume each night in a fancy glass makes me above that, right?

Paranoia and delusions. Someone really has been following me. No. Really. I swear they have.

Change in routine. Mood swings. Feelings of hopelessness and despair.

Check.

Check.

And a big fat check.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Jesus, that fucking clock needs to shut up.

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