Page 74 of The Inmate
NATALIE
This ismy second day with practically no sleep.
The police finally left my house at some ungodly hour. I didn’t see them carrying out any bloody clothing or dismembered limbs, so I’m thinking they didn’t find anything. Thank God. I can finally get back to my life again.
This morning is the 5K. I was adamant about keeping it going, but right now, I would seriously consider giving up one of my pinky fingers if I didn’t have to do it.
The weather has held up. It’s brisk out, but there’s no rain, and it’s not unseasonably cold. After running for twenty minutes or so, it will feel perfect. I decide to take the weather as an omen. If the weather is nice, the race is going to go perfectly.
Instead of the T-shirt and shorts I wear when I run around the neighborhood, I’ve got skin-tight running pants to wear for the 5K, as well as the special T-shirt I ordered. When I toss it over my head, I realize it’s a little tighter than I thought, but that’s fine. The T-shirts running small is a minor problem.
I’ve been organizing this 5K for the last five years now, so I’ve got it down to a science now. I recruited some students from Boston College to help out, and I put them in charge of various tasks that need to be done, like manning the water stations, posting the signs for where to go, and making sure everybody running is registered. I went over everything they need to do in advance, but I usually call each of them the night before. I was in no position to do that last night, so I’m just going to have to hope everything goes to plan.
Before I leave the house, I check out my appearance in the bathroom mirror. I’ve pulled my blond hair back into a high ponytail, and I have on far too much makeup for a 5K, but it’s all sweatproof. I got a local news station to cover the race, so I want to be camera ready. And after the last few days, I would never consider being filmed without makeup on. When I stumbled into the bathroom this morning, I looked like the bride of Frankenstein. I certainly haven’t had a chance to touch up my roots this week, but it will have to be good enough.
I take an Uber to Florian Hall an hour before the start time for the race. I am expecting the worst, but to my relief, Cleo from Boston College is already at the front of the building with a table of registration clipboards and a jug of water with a bunch of little cups. She helped me out last year too, so she knows exactly what to do.
“Hey, Natalie!” Cleo waves enthusiastically. “We’re all set!”
Cleo is all of twenty years old, and she looks so bright-eyed, it somehow makes me even more tired. And she’s not even going to be running the 5K. But I’m grateful to have her help. She has a cousin with cerebral palsy, so she’s a big supporter of the cause.
“Everyone came?” I ask.
“Just about.” She squints off into the distance. “Eli thinks he’s coming down with the flu, although I think he’s being a baby. But we’ve got enough people. All the signs are posted. We’re good to go.”
“Thank you so much.” My knees feel weak with relief. “You’ve done an amazing job. I’m sorry I didn’t call to check in on you. I… I got busy yesterday.”
Cleo drops her voice a notch. “I heard what happened to your coworker. I’m so sorry. I hope they find the monster who did it.”
So do I. She has no idea how much.
Since everything has been taken care of, I wait around at the start of the race and do some stretches. While I am stretching out my hamstrings, the phone I have strapped to my biceps starts to ring. I pull it out of the holster and look at the screen.
It’s a blocked number.
I never got a phone call last night. I was waiting for it, especially while Santoro was at my house. I wanted him to see how somebody was harassing me. But of course, they never called. Just as well, since I suspect he wouldn’t have been that impressed.
I hold the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
No answer. Again.
The other night, I started yelling into the phone when this happened. But thanks to Greg Lowsky, I know exactly what to do:
I use the TrackCall app to retrieve the number of the blocked caller. I wasn’t entirely convinced it would work, but then a number shows up on the screen, just like Greg promised it would. I grab a pen off the table Cleo set up and scribble down the number on one of the registration sheets.
I stare down at the number I wrote down. The area code isn’t local. I think it might be Rhode Island. I bring up a reverse number lookup on my phone, and I type in the ten digits.
I was right. The phone number belongs to a motel just outside of Providence.
What the hell?
“Nat?”
Caleb is behind me, wearing a pair of gray shorts and the extra-large T-shirt I gave him earlier in the week. I want to be furious at him for what he did to me, but since he showed up here to support me and it doesn’t seem like I have a lot of support right now, I can’t stay mad. Especially because he looks really hot in his running outfit—his muscles bulge under the T-shirt, which is a bit snug on him as well.
“You made it,” I say.
He gives me a lopsided smile. “I couldn’t let you down again.”
