Page 33 of Five
“Hi, uh…Detective… This is Neve Murray. I’m calling because I was out and came back to my car, and someone broke my window. It’s probably nothing. I shouldn’t even be calling. Except I’m pretty sure whoever did it stole my laptop, too. So there’s that. I’m kind of done for the day if that makes any sense. Done for the year, really. I can’t take a single other thing. So I’m going to go on home, and I guess if you guys need to look at anything, you can just call me in the morning.” I stop, biting my lip. Was that everything? “You have my number, I think. Okay. Yep. Thank you.”
Knowing I’m messing up, knowing that insurance probably won’t cover the damage if I don’t report it properly, I climb in my car, place my trembling hands on the steering wheel, and pull out of the shopping center.
It takes me a moment to get my bearings, but I eventually turn down the right streets and head toward my apartment. There’s no question of a date this evening, and at the next stoplight I send a quick message to Oliver, canceling.
I just want to get home.
The light turns green, and I toss the phone down, then turn the radio on. In the seat beside me, the phone keeps making noise, demanding my attention. Reaching over, I command my shaking fingers to set it to vibrate.
I can’t ignore the buzzing, though. It’s continual, an annoying reminder that there’s something I need to do—like the beep of a microwave that’s finished cooking that three-minute Lean and Fit meal.
The five-minute drive home feels like an eternity, but at last, I pull into my space and climb from the car, gathering my purse and phone to my chest. I don’t bother to lock it. There’s no point.
Rushing up the covered staircase that leads to my second-floor walk-up, I fumble with my key at the door, finally managing to get it open, and slam it shut behind me. Jamie Fraser startles at the sound, leaping up from the sunny spot on the floor where he had been napping and darting away. The phone continues to buzz in my hand, and finally, I pull it away from my chest and look at it.
The notifications line out before me, blurring as I stare.
It’s the same number, registering as unknown, texting over and over again. Dread pooling in my stomach, I swipe to open the messages.
Wendy.
Wendy.
Wendy.
It only takes a second for me to make the connection, and when I do, my blood runs cold.
Wendy. The Lost Boys. Henry.
My brother.
I drop the phone to the floor as if it had suddenly transformed into a hissing snake.
I grab one of the stout wooden chairs from my dining room table, run into the bathroom, and shove the chair under the doorknob. I catch sight of myself in the mirror—angry and frightened. Heartbroken. Tears well in my eyes and spill onto my cheeks. Of all the awful things to resurrect...it’s the one time in my life I would erase in a heartbeat.
On the other side of the door, the phone continues to buzz, the sound muffled against the carpeted surface of the floor. Jamie Fraser meows, a plaintive sound, and bats his paws against the bathroom door. I wrestle with myself for half a minute, closing my eyes against my pale reflection, and then reluctantly open the door.
Jamie Fraser rushes in, chirping at me in indignation. His golden-orange fur stands up on his back, my own panic clearly transferring itself to him.
“I’m sorry, baby.” I stroke his fur, then move resolutely toward the kitchen.
My apartment has always been one of my favorite places, bright and airy and comfortable. It feels suddenly like a frightening, unknown quantity, with its glass patio doors and loads of windows. Even if I am on the second floor, I’m too accessible. In the kitchenette, I collect the cat’s water and food bowls. Returning to the bathroom, I set them down on the tiled floor and walk out again, this time grabbing my comforter and a pillow from my bed. I toss them in the bathtub.
Jamie Fraser follows me, winding in and around my ankles at every step. I place him in the tub and then pick up my phone. Quickly, before I can think about it too much, I send a message to Shelby asking her to activate the phone tree and cancel school for the next day as a safety precaution.
And send an email.
I toss the phone back down to the hallway floor then, and close the door between me and it with a decisive click. The chair goes under the doorknob, an extra security measure. I settle myself with Jamie Fraser in the bathtub, letting his rumbling purr settle soothingly in every cell.
Outside the door, the phone continues to buzz.
Six
Oscar
Ifuckinghatebeingchained to a desk. And reviewing security footage from grainy CCTV cameras that are more for show than anything more useful is particularly tedious, but it needs to be done. At least catching the occasional glimpse of Neve makes it tolerable.
As I scan the low-quality recordings, hoping the perp shows his face, even though I sincerely doubt it’ll be that easy, my mind wanders to Neve again.
