Page 31 of Eyes in the Shadows

Watched anything good lately?What, am I trying to be funny with that?!

I have more questions.Kind of demanding. Would he even want to answer them?

Why am I even considering initiating conversation?

Because he put the ball in my court. He told me the next move was mine and I… I want to see him again.

I reach the bottom stair, pause, and type out:

Thanks for the flowers.

Another bouquet was delivered this morning, even though the other one is still alive. This one has different flowers entirely, but they’re still fragrance free. I’m starting to think people are making up the sniffing thing they do—

Someone clips my shoulder from behind, jolting me forward. I catch myself with one hand on the railing and clutch my phone against my chest with the other so it doesn’t go flying.

“Sorry!” the girl calls over her shoulder as she makes her way towards the exit.

I look after her, waving to show no harm—okay, she’s not even looking—and my eye catches on a large man at the check-in desk. It’s that detective that was at my door… Detective O’Irish-Sounding? O’Malley maybe? My heart lurches. What is he doing here? Following me?!

Calm down, Eleanor.I do occasionally run into people I recognize. We live in the same city and it’s not that big of a place. I’m being paranoid. I’m sure a detective can afford to come to a gym like this. He’s allowed to go to the same gym as me, just like my gynecologist is allowed to go to the same farmer’s market.

Yeah, but my gynecologist can’t arrest me for lying to the police.

I decide to give him a wide berth, made easier as he strides away from the desk, off in the opposite direction from where I’m standing. He’s not really dressed for the gym, still wearing fancy loafers and a leather jacket, so he kind of sticks out among the gym shorts and tee shirts. But so do most people on their way in. He’s probably headed to the men’s locker room to change.

I glance back down at the phone screen and my stomach drops. Oh no. Oh no, oh no.

The text sent.

This is bad. Is this bad? I did want to reach out; it’s like the universe just made the decision for me. But now that it’s out there, the single message on an otherwise blank screen feels desperate and a little pathetic.

What good can come of this? What am I even trying to do, here? He’s a killer.

A killer who sends me flowers. A killer who—in spite of myself—I’m so curious about, I can’t stand it. Maybe he has reasons, something explainable. I want to let him fill in the blanks, let him confirm or correct what I think I know.

I turn the corner on the stairs to finish the half-flight that leads down to the sub-1st floor area with the locker rooms. The men’s room is on one end of a narrow hall, the women’s on the other. The whole area is blissfully empty, likely because it’s a Sunday evening. Most people are at home, spending time with their families and/or getting ready for a long work week ahead of them. But my nextday off fell on Monday this week so, for the first time in a long time, I have two days off in a row and this feels like the start of my weekend.

Is it normal behavior to take your phone—which is no longer water tight due to an unfortunate incident with gravity and the stairs in my building—into the shower and then also the room full of steam? Especially because if he texts, even though I’ll read it immediately, I’m going to make myself wait to reply anyway so I can seem cool and aloof?

Probably not. But I do it anyway.

I wait until the coast is clear to step outside of the shower, wrapped in the two towels overlapping, and hurry over to the steam room. It’s pretty dark inside with only the one overhead bulb, and the little bit of light scatters from all the water in the air. There’s a bench that makes a U shape, hugging the walls opposite the frosted glass door entrance.

I choose the seat in one of the far corners, reveling in the solitude. There’s a loud background sound from the spigot intermittently dispensing steam, but otherwise it’s kind of peaceful. It’s so private. I can’t see much further than my hand outstretched in front of me in the misty air. I think people normally sit in here nude.

My phone starts buzzing. My heart flutters and I grin like an idiot down at the name flashing across the top. I swipe across the screen and just as I’m about to lift it to my ear, I hear, “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been to get you somewhere alone?”

My eyes fly open at the voice. That deep, gravelly tone echoing around me off the tile is instantly recognizable, since I literally just saw him. But I can’t really see him now through the steam, except for as a vague, dark shape. My heart starts hammering.

“D-detective O’Malley? What—this is the women’s room! You can’t be in here!” I clutch the towel around my chest and snap my knees together. This feels bad, ominous, and being nearly naked seems like a distinct disadvantage. I glance down at my phone and debate hanging up on Mac to call… who, 911?

“Jesus, you are a creature of habit, ain’t ya? You go to work, you go home, same way every time. Public, well-lit route. You probably got pepper spray in thatbag you hold so tight, too, huh? If you were a slightly more interesting person, I wouldn’t have had to create my own opportunity to talk to you.”

“What?” I ask. The air is hot and wet in a way that feels like I should be able to blink away some of the blurriness, but that’s not the case. My head is starting to feel thick with it. “I’m confused. Um, do you have more questions for me? Did you try reaching me at home?”

“Security cameras already caught me there once.”

My stomach starts to sink. He’s not a detective. There’s no way even the worst kind of police-brutality offender would try to avoid security cameras and corner a woman, naked and alone. I look back down at my phone screen. The call is active, though I haven’t heard him speak. My instinct is to hide it from O’Malley—if that’s even his name—because it feels like my last lifeline. I slowly lower the phone to the bench next to me, face down.

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