Page 9 of Eyes in the Shadows

“I’m fine. Tomorrow’s my day off, so I’ll see you Friday.” I’m a little pissed that I can’t veg on my couch in my underwear—and I’m certainly not touching anything in our motel room with my bare skin if I can help it—but a day off is a day off. Maybe I’ll go to the small local movie theater. They only play indie film festival contenders, usually with subtitles, which I find distracting. But it’s something to do.

Rach heads back inside and I hike my purse up on my shoulder. Without her presence, even though I’m six inches taller than her, the alley is just a long,dark, narrow space with way too many shadows. I feel exposed, like someone is watching. I reach inside my purse and grip the pepper spray as I make my way to the street.

It’s only 8:30, so though it’s pitch black, the street is bustling with activity in a way it isn’t at 11 PM. I release my death grip on the small canister and grab my phone instead. After this day, I need a caloric coma.

I text Harrison.

Got off early. Did you eat yet? I’m thinking Chinese. My treat.

If you can bring it here. I’ve got a paper due tomorrow that I forgot about.

I make a sympathetic face. He’ll probably have to pull an all-nighter.

I can do that.

You’re the best. Chicken with steamed broccoli, brown rice.

Man, I wish my Chinese food itch could be scratched by something that full of fiber.

It’s like thinking the worditchcauses the reaction. My knee starts burning again and I stop, stepping off to the side so I’m not in anyone’s way, to reach down and rub it again. God, I want to scratch it. It’s becoming more persistent and I know I won’t be able to sleep without some relief.

Cortisone creams only do so much. What I really need is the expensive, prescription tube in my cabinet.

I pull my phone back out to dial my favorite—aka, the closest—Chinese restaurant, but pull up the browser instead. I type my question into the search bar and scroll through the top few suggested websites.

The internet is in general agreement that the chemicals used by exterminators can take anywhere from 24 to 72 hours to do their thing, and they tent the building to trap the vapors. Apparently, the fumigant evaporates six hours after the tent is removed and it’s safe to go back inside after that.

Hmm. I know we’re not supposed to come back until Friday morning, but maybe it’s just overkill so no one gets sued? And I’m going to pass right by it to get the food… If the building is tented, that would be obvious, right? If the tent is still up, I’ll just stop at the pharmacy that’s on the way and make do with the over-the-counter stuff.

With renewed purpose, I head in the direction of my apartment. It’s only a few blocks, and I’m nervous yet optimistic as my building comes into view. I could really use a win.

And luck is on my side! There’s no tent that I can see.

I scan the building. It looks so odd, completely dark like this—empty and kind of spooky. Usually at least one or two people have their lights on all night. I stop when my eyes reach the top floor, picking out my middle unit.

That’s weird. I could have sworn that I remembered to open my curtains. I always do before I leave for the day, otherwise my apartment gets musty. Well, I had been a tad rushed on my way out… exhibit A: forgot my meds.

The front door is blocked off with caution tape, and there’s a sign posted that I can see from where I am that says “Notice” in big block lettering. But I wasn’t going to use the front door anyway—since I’m technically not allowed in the building yet, I’m going to be sneaky. I go around to the back, where I know the security cameras are just for show, and check the door. It’s not even blocked off, which feels like a good sign that it’s safe to enter.

The hallway is so echo-y and creepy in the dark, it feels wrong to go traipsing around at full volume. I close the door quietly. When I’m not met with any strange smells, or weird feelings from inhaling the wrong fumes, I decide that 72 hours was definitely overkill. And, frankly, that pisses me off.

Of course not being sued takes priority over getting everyone back in the building. It’s just our homes and livelihood…

I get to the top floor, pleased that it doesn’t put me out of breath. I guess that’s what happens when you come home before the point of complete exhaustion at a physically taxing job.

My key ring isn’t fussy since I don’t have a car and I haven’t been anywhere cool enough in the world to justify the purchase of keychains to mark the memory. Ifind the only key easily, shove it into the lock, throw open the door and flip on the light, just as a loud bang permeates the stillness inside.

I freeze.

There’s a man.

There’s a man in my apartment.

My heart stutters and fear like I’ve never known grips me, locking me in place. My muscles seize and the blood drains from my face.

He turns, wide eyed, and my memory sparks. I know that face. I’ve been thinking about it nonstop for two days. He’s not in his gray onesie, but the face poking out over his black long-sleeved shirt is unmistakable, if incomprehensible. Even without his thick-rimmed glasses, I know.

It’s Mac.

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