Page 15 of Perfect Stalker

Natalia looks up, clearly concerned. “Is everything all right, Mr. Markov?”

“Fine,” I say, not breaking my stride. “I’ll be out for the rest of the day. Handle any urgent matters.”

The elevator descends, each floor ticking by too slowly. In the parking garage, I slide behind the wheel of my Aston Martin and turn the key. The car revs to life, and I’m soon out of the garage. The streets blur while I weave through traffic, anxious to reach her.

Finally, Jenny’s apartment building lies ahead. I park across the street, scanning the area. Her lights are on, spilling a warm glow from the windows. My full-body tension eases slightly. I couldgo up to the twentieth-floor apartment, or even to the thirtieth-floor penthouse of my more luxurious building, but I just sit in the car outside her street, starting at the front of the building.

If she came out right now, she’d catch me in the act of spying on her. Part of me wants her to do just that, to end the pretense, so maybe that’s why I continue to linger in the Aston Martin as the sunlight fades, and darkness pervades the city.

CHAPTER 7

JENNY

After storming out of “Markov Entertainment” and getting on a random bus—which led to a prolonged, three-hour ride trying to get back to my place—I step into my apartment, firmly shutting the door behind me. The silence envelops me, which is a wild contrast to the chaos of emotions swirling inside. My hands shake when I slide the deadbolt into place, though it’s a flimsy barrier against the threats lurking in my mind.

“There’s no one watching you,” I mutter, kicking off my shoes. In spite of that, I remember the feeling of being watched. It’s a feeling I always have these days, if I’m honest with myself—and I need to be, no matter how frightened I am.

“No,” I say sharply aloud. “You’re imagining things.” Just learning my boss is a criminal might support the fear I’ve been watched, but that makes no sense. He didn’t even know me until yesterday, aside from my personnel file. He probably kept meon because he identified me as meek and willing to do whatever without asking questions.

Sadly, he’s probably right, or at least, that’s who I used to be. After my epiphany yesterday that the reason my coworkers treated me so terribly is because I let them, I’m not going to backslide.

Still, the conversation I overheard between Ivan and Marcus plays on repeat in my head. Their words, laden with hidden meanings and veiled threats, paint a picture I can’t ignore. I pace the living room, my stockinged feet silent on the LVP floor. “There has to be an explanation,” I say to the empty room. “Something I’m missing.”

Try as I might, I can’t conjure up a scenario where their words are innocent. The pieces fit together too neatly, forming a picture of illegal activities and dangerous connections. My stomach churns at the implications.

I glance at the clock. It’s already past four p.m., and I haven’t eaten since breakfast. The gnawing in my stomach competes with the anxiety twisting my insides. “Food first, then figure out this mess.”

I head to the kitchen, pulling ingredients from the fridge. The familiar motions of chopping vegetables and seasoning chicken soothe my frayed nerves. As the aroma of sautéing garlic and onions fills the air, my thoughts drift back to Ivan.

As the chicken sizzles in the pan, I lean against the counter, arms crossed. “What are you going to do, Jenny? You can’t just ignore this.” I ask the question aloud, as I often do when alone, but of course, I have no answer.

The obvious answer is to quit, to walk away from “Markov Entertainment” and never look back, which I’ve already done—but is that enough? If Ivan and his associates are involved in something illegal, do I have an obligation to report it? And if I do, what proof do I have beyond a snippet of overheard conversation? If I just mind my own business, will they let me go quietly? Or do I need to…what? Run away? Assume a new identity? Be a fugitive in a sense? How dramatic, but…

The timer dings, jolting me from my thoughts. I plate the chicken and vegetables, the sight and smell reminding me how hungry I am. As I sit at my small dining table, the familiar decor is soothing—but boring. The realization that it’s November 2nd hits me. “Might as well make the place look nice while I figure this out,” I mutter between bites.

After finishing my meal, I head to the hall closet, where I keep my seasonal decorations. I pull out the tote marked “Autumn” and open it. The autumn wreath is on top, and holding it in my hands brings a smile to my face. I hang it on the front door, rustling the silk leaves softly. I’d put it outside, but I learned my lesson the first year I lived alone. It was in a considerably less-nice neighborhood, but someone had stolen my wreath within an hour of hanging it.

Back in the living room, I unpack more decorations. A garland of fall leaves drapes across the mantel, and ceramic pumpkins find homes on end tables. I switch out the white vanilla candles for burnt orange pumpkin spice-scented ones and inhale, though I don’t light them. The routine of decorating helps calm my speeding thoughts, giving my hands something to do while my mind works.

I place a cornucopia centerpiece on the tiny dining table, arranging the faux fruits and vegetables just so. The burst ofautumnal colors brightens the room, offering a welcome relief from the gray clouds of uncertainty hanging over me.

I sink onto the couch, surrounded by the warm colors of fall, feeling anything but warm inside. My gaze falls on my phone, sitting innocently on the coffee table. I could call the police to report what I heard, but what would I say? That I overheard my boss talking about something that sounded suspicious? It’s hardly concrete evidence.

“And what if I’m wrong?” I ask the empty room. “What if there’s a perfectly innocent explanation for everything?” But deep down, I know that’s unlikely. The pieces fit together too well, forming a picture I can’t unsee. Ivan Markov, with his intense gaze and commanding presence, is involved in something dangerous and illegal.

I scoop up the phone anyway and call up my mom’s number. With everything I’ve learned threatening to crush me, I need to hear her voice, to feel some semblance of normal, though I can’t tell her what’s going on. With a deep breath, I tap the call button.

“Jenny? What a lovely surprise,” Mom’s warm voice fills the line after two rings.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know me, dear. The kids in the Peds Unit keep me hopping. Busy as always. How about you? Is everything all right?”

I hesitate, the truth burning on my tongue, but I can’t burden her with this. Not yet. “Yeah, I’m...I’m okay. Just had a crazy day at work yesterday.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“We have a new owner.” I sink onto the couch, pulling a throw pillow onto my lap. “He fired pretty much everyone. It was pretty intense.”