Page 45 of Secrets Along the Shore
What if he was watching me? Right this moment. What if he wasoutside of my apartment and could see me shaking? I dropped the glass in the sink and it shattered. But I didn’t care. I sprinted to the nearest windows and dropped the shades, twisting the plastic rod so they closed me in from the outside world. I sprinted to the rest of the windows in the apartment, checking their locks, tugging on the front door to make sure I’d locked it, and even glancing into the bathroom.
I mean, I’d heard the true crime story of a killer breaking into Chicago apartments by removing the bathroom cabinets and finding by doing so, they had created an entrance into the bathroom in the opposite apartment.
I looked into my bathroom, flicking on the light.
My cabinet was in place. I wasn’t even sure if my bathroom abutted the next apartment’s bathroom, but the idea was so strangely stark in my mind.
The navy-blue shower curtain was open—just as I’d left it the other night—and no one was hiding in the tub.
Thank God.
It’s wild what crashes through a person’s psyche in a time of desperate fear. Maybe it was a way to feel like I exercised some sort of control over the situation. Or maybe it was an avoidance of common sense because common sense told me I was going to be murdered.
It didn’t matter.
I charged back into the kitchen, glancing over my shoulder, feeling eyes on me even though I had proven to myself that I was alone.
My phone light was on, evidence of more activity.
I reached for it as if were a poisonous snake itself. Another text had followed.
Don’t cry. I’m here.
I didn’t even try to interpret the cryptic message. Instead, I swiped it off the screen and fumbled with my phone. Within seconds, I’d dialed Reuben. I probably should’ve dialed 911, but instinct sent me to Reuben.
“Pick up, pick up.” My muttering was met with Reuben’s voicemail.
“Reuben—I got a message on my phone. I think—it’s from Sophia’s killer. Please. I need you to—” What? Needed him towhat? I struggled to find my voice, to find the words, and instead I managed to say, “I’ll come by the station.”
It only made sense.
Leave my apartment—expose myself in the broad wide-open world outside my front door—hope I made it across town—and then take up permanent residence in a jail cell. Because, at the moment, that seemed the safest alternative to dying.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
My tires squealedas I rounded the corner and pulled into the police station. Okay. Maybe that was an overdramatic entrance, but I felt validated when Reuben marched from the building toward my car.
“Give me your phone.” He’d obviously received my voicemail, and he didn’t even bother to see if I was okay—although I didn’t expect anything else.
“I don’t know who it’s from.” I handed it to him as I crawled from my car. “It came in after I got home from work.”
“You went back to your apartment?” He gave me the side-eye.
“I had to at some point.”
He didn’t argue, only studied the photograph. “It’s the same species as the snake under the women’s windows.”
“I know.” I hugged my arms around myself and shivered, even though the heat index outside was quite high for a Wisconsin afternoon. “Can you trace the text?”
“Maybe.” Reuben motioned for me to follow him. I had no intention other than to do just that. The idea of being anywhere alone now or in the near future had been wiped clear off my wish list.
“Is this it? Just the text?” Reuben asked.
Did we want something more? No thanks. “That’s all. And the other text. The one that says, ‘don’t cry, I’m here’.”
“Does that mean anything to you?” Reuben opened the door and cold air hit my face with a punch that awakened my sense.
