Page 17 of Sexting the Silverfox

I practically jump out of my skin. I hold my breath, taking cautious steps toward the door when the third knock comes. It’s louder this time, a whole fist banging against the door. It’s hard and menacing, and it’s making my nerves jump.

Suddenly, the past rears its ugly head in the rearview mirror of my consciousness as I struggle to keep it together. Could it be? No, I’ve been careful. It doesn’t make sense.

The fourth knock is downright aggressive.

I’m frozen on the spot, mere inches away from the door. I’m not breathing anymore. But my heart beats fast and loud, echoing in my ears, drumming relentlessly as I stare at the shadow stretching in from the building’s hallway. I can see him through the bottom crack of my door, standing there, knocking over and over. I dare not step any closer. Whoever it is, he might hear me. I just turned the TV off, and there’s not a single sound coming out of my apartment.

As far as anyone is concerned, I’m not home.

Another knock brings stinging tears to my eyes, quickly followed by a letter sliding under the door. I watch the shadow pull away and hear heavy footsteps receding. The longest minute of my life passes. I’m still holding my phone, the grip so tight that my knuckles have turned white. My palm is sweating. I slip the phone into my bathrobe’s pocket and pick the letter up with shaky fingers.

“Oh, fuck,” I mumble as I unfold the single piece of white paper.

The letters are clear in their black ink.

The message quickly sears itself into my very soul.

For two years, I thought I was okay. At first, I looked over my shoulder a lot, making sure that no one was following me before I ever turned the corner to my street. I made sure I didn’t pick up a tail whenever I went in and out of the subway. For a while, I even waited in the downstairs lobby after walking in just to see if anyone might come in after me. No one ever did.

Once the coast seemed clear, I slipped back into living mode.

I got a job teaching kindergarten. Slowly but surely, I made a couple of work friends—the kind who didn’t ask too many questions and didn’t insist on my attendance at various cordial events. We had the occasional drink after work, but that was it.

The words in the letter are written in Russian. I keep reading them, hoping that somehow, they’ll transform into something different. But the meaning is blisteringly obvious:

We’ve found you; now it’s time to come home.

Chapter 8

Jason

Something has changed between us.

I can’t quite put my finger on it yet, but Audrey sent an email to the building manager asking about the intercom system for The Emerald. It’s supposed to be working, or so I was told. The technician we sent down yesterday confirmed it.

Audrey wouldn’t go into any detail regarding the subject but our phone and text conversations have gotten briefer over the past couple of days. She’s become distant.

I’m starting to think something happened to upset her, but when I ask, all she says is that I don’t need to worry about it and that everything’s fine. She said she’s seen suspicious people lurking around, and she’s concerned about the elderly residents’ safety since there’s been a string of home invasions happening on this side of Chicago over the winter.

I’m tempted to bring in a different security team altogether, but I need to confirm that her concerns are valid, as she’s the only one who’s brought it up out of a couple of hundred residents.

“Daddy, what are we doing here?” Lily asks.

I’ve just picked up my daughter from kindergarten and decided to stop by The Emerald to check up on things. I don’t like this gap that’s growing between Audrey and me. It’s been bugging me more and more. I know we haven’t exactly put a label on it, but I’ve come to miss her when she’s not around.

“Oh, we’re just visiting one of my buildings, honey, and we might even run into a friend,” I tell my daughter as I scoop her out of the booster seat and carry her across the street.

“Your girlfriend?”

I stop on the edge of the sidewalk to look at Lily. For a five-year-old, she can be annoyingly observant sometimes. She also has a knack for dropping conversational bombs when I least expect it.

“What makes you think I have a girlfriend?” I ask her.

“I can tell.”

Her eyes are wide and fierce with knowledge. It’s as if there’s a whole other world inside my daughter, and she doesn’t have the mental capacity at her age to accurately explain what goes through her head. I’ve always felt she’s way smarter than most five-year-olds, but there are moments when Lily leaves me speechless. All I can do is smile softly and put her down so we can both go up the front steps.

“She could be my girlfriend if you like her,” I say.

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