Page 19 of Eyes in the Shadows

I feel my stomach drop, my mind instantly spinning with possibilities for how he could know. Logic catches up a second later and I clear the frog from my throat. “About what?”

“Since when do you have a boyfriend? And why didn’t you tell me?” he doesn’t sound hurt, but there’s an edge to his voice.

I balk, searching for any excuse. Maybe if I turn it back on him, he’ll drop it… “It’s not like you tell me things about Stacey without me asking. And you didn’t ask.”

“Because me and Stacey isn’t actually a thing yet. There’s nothing really to tell,” he says, looking away and trying to hide a little smile. “But don’t change the subject. I’m asking now—who is he?”

“He’s…”

I should have prepared for this question. After Mac’s rude handling of the phone call they had, I should have known Harrison would want details. And I really, really don’t want to lie to Harrison. But I also know deep down that he’ll be in serious trouble if I tell him the truth.

I sigh. “It’s complicated. I’m not really sure what happened between us, exactly.”

My tone must sound as tired and pathetic as I feel, because I watch the indignation melt out of his body—his shoulders drop, and his frown smooths out. “Hey, I didn’t mean… You don’t have to tell me anything. But I’m here to talk if you want to, okay?”

I just nod. This conversation feels wrong. It’s so normal, so banal. I feel like I’m outside myself looking in, observing who I used to be without experiencing it. I don’t feel like the same carefree Eleanor who ribs her neighbor about his love life. I’m Eleanor with a dark secret. I’m Eleanor who’s been tied up in my own apartment. I’m Eleanor who’s watched a man kill. And—worst of all—I’m Eleanor with complicated, mixed emotions about it all.

“He sounds kind of… never mind.”

“No, what?” I prompt.

Harrison lifts a hand to scratch his scalp and he turns his head away to say, “Well, he wasn’t exactly friendly on the phone. Sounds like maybe he’s sort of controlling? I say this as your friend; I don’t want you to get mixed up in some sort of bad situation.”

The edges of my mouth lift in a half-hearted smile. It’s too ironic not to acknowledge it, but too fresh to actually be funny. “Thanks, Harrison. You’re a good friend.”

“Okay, well I’ve got to get to work. But I meant what I said. Always here to talk.”

I nod, and usher him out of the apartment. I sit on the couch after he’s gone, and seriously consider a nap. I also seriously consider calling out from work. Then I remember I still don’t have my phone, and, frankly, I’m not sure I can stand another day like yesterday. At least the restaurant will give me something to throw myself into.

I feel naked, cut off without my phone. I really should go to the police, but it takes me a second to remember where the station is. Then, I groan. I’ll have to borrow Harrison’s laptop to figure out the route I need and take the bus because it’s too far to walk.

As I stare out the window, it suddenly occurs to me that whatever Mac was shooting at, I should be able to see from here. I stand and approach, trying to remember the angle of his setup. I crouch down to the approximate height and look out in the approximate direction, but everything looks normal.

As far as the eye can see—which, admittedly, is maybe not as far as his military-grade equipment—it’s all hustling commuters, dogs being walked, kids running around playground equipment, garbage being picked up. Normal city stuff. There’s no tape, no police barricades, blocking off the area of a murder.

I remember Mac saying something about a roof, but none of the buildings in my view that have accessible roofs are corded off either. If someone was shot, wouldn’t it be more obvious?

Unless it’s being covered up.

Maybe I watch too many crime dramas.

7

Mac

Good thing I like 'em a little crazy.

I feel myself smile as she manages her way through her first test—a conversation with that damn insolent, nosy, overbearing neighbor—and passes with flying colors. She didn’t even let my name slip.

He has been texting her, like he said. I grab her phone, type in the passcode she gave me, and flip through his messages again.

How’s it going?

Hope you’re having a good time. You coming back tonight?

Hey, I’m going to leave soon. Want me to check out?

Should I grab your stuff?

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