Page 15 of Sexting the Silverfox

It’s not busy at this hour, so I have a clear view of the block from where I’m standing. For the past week or so, I’ve felt a constant urge to look over my shoulder, though I don’t think it’s warranted. Two years have passed since I left; I can’t imagine they are still looking for me. Besides, I would’ve seen something, a sign of their presence. They’re not exactly the subtle type.

But this feeling has been getting more and more persistent, especially when I’m on my own and especially around The Emerald. Maybe it’s just the ongoing discomfort of my heat situation.

“Audrey, I’ve been on my own for years now, and I do all right. My husband would be proud. I certainly am, especially in my old age. Going to stay with Eric does make me feel a little helpless.”

“But you’re not helpless,” I reply. “The whole building is facing the same problem. I’m pretty sure our entire floor is currently temporarily unoccupied for the same reason.”

“Yet you’re still here.”

“That’s because I don’t have any friends or family in Chicago,” I chuckle dryly. “But don’t worry, I’m going to be fine. What’s another week in this freezing hell, anyway?”

“Hold on, who’s Jason?” Mrs. Ashel asks, her slim brows furrowed tightly.

“Jason.”

“You said you spoke to Jason?”

“The new owner,” I say, smiling. “My apologies, we’re on a first-name basis. Jason Winchester. His company owns the building. A good man, I’ll give him that. Very … hands-on, you could say.”

“Jason Winchester,” Mrs. Ashel repeats his name, slowly nodding as her gaze wanders off to the side. “Oh, there’s that dang car again.”

I glance across the street and immediately spot the car she’s talking about—a black sedan with tinted windows. The driver’s window is rolled down, and I can see the man’s profile quite clearly from where I’m standing. He doesn’t seem to notice us, though; he’s too busy scrolling through his phone.

“Who’s that?” I ask.

“No idea,” Mrs. Ashel replies, “but I saw him around here the other day. A week ago, too. Always parks right there and always at these early hours.”

My stomach does a flip. Doubt is quick to infiltrate my thoughts as old worst-case scenarios threaten to rear their ugly heads and ruin my day. It can’t be one of theirs. They wouldn’t send an emissary. They’d come here themselves, and they would definitely make a spectacle of the whole thing. Subtle isn’t their style.

“Maybe he’s somebody’s driver,” I surmise, my voice lower than usual. I can’t take my eyes off the guy. The more I look at him, the more uneasy I get. I can’t put my finger on the problem, yet I cannot ignore this sensation, either. “Or a prospective buyer.”

Mrs. Ashel scoffs. “I have a mind of going over there and telling him to forget about this place unless he wants to live in the equivalent of a Siberian winter.”

The mere mention of Siberia sends my mind off to Russia, a trigger for me. Suddenly, I see the man in a completely different light. My uneasiness doesn’t seem as ridiculous as before. His profile looks familiar for a reason—he reminds me of people I grew up around.

Pale-faced with a strong jawline and thick cheekbones. Short, brown hair. He wears a black turtleneck and a black leather jacket and seems to be deeply engrossed in whatever he is reading on his phone.

As soon as he looks up and notices me, I freeze. My heart stops, and I feel like a deer caught in the headlights. The helplessness I once felt as a child comes back to haunt me, to twist my senses, summoning a reaction I worked so hard to suppress in the years since I left New York.

There’s a twinkle of recognition in his eyes.

Or maybe I’m losing my mind.

“Audrey, are you okay?” Mrs. Ashel asks.

I am unable to respond, caught in this man’s brief gaze. His glance is fleeting, lasting for maybe a couple of seconds before he goes back to scrolling through his phone. Yet the impact it has on me lasts longer. Thoughts are swirling in the back of my head with no sense or meaning, filled with that same unpleasant familiarity.

“Audrey,” Mrs. Ashel says again.

“What?” I snap out of it and look at her. “Sorry, my mind was somewhere else,” I add with an awkward smile. “I’m sure it’s nobody important. This is a busy street, after all, and there are a lot of residents on this block. Someone’s always here visiting somebody.”

“I miss the good old days when this was just a small, quaint neighborhood,” she grumbles, readjusting the purse on her shoulder. “The ’70s and ’80s may have been messy, but I’m telling you, honey, this neighborhood was nowhere near as packed as it is today.”

“That’s the price of progress, Mrs. Ashel,” I reply with a casual shrug.

Chills run down my spine as the black car’s window rolls up. Moments later, it’s gone, yet the empty space it leaves behind fills me with a subtle feeling of dread.

I wish I could figure out what it is that’s got me so twisted on the inside. I keep telling myself that I just need more time to get over the past. I may have left it behind, but there’s always a chance it could catch up with me.

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