Page 1 of Freeing Ruby

Chapter 1

Ruby

Nighttime is the worst. I’m most vulnerable when I’m asleep, so I keep the lights on in the kitchen and living room of my apartment all night long so that it looks like someone’s awake and alert. I keep the TV on all night, too, with the volume turned down low. It gives me some comfort knowing that, while I’m sleeping, my apartment is watching out for me, discouraging intruders. Keeping me safe.

I’m lying in bed watching TikTok, trying to pass time until I feel sleepy. It’s taking me a good long while to fall asleep tonight because I had a bad day.

He was here today.

I heard him outside my apartment door this evening. I heard him tapping on my door and then scraping his nails down the plain wooden barrier that exists between me and the outside world. I could practically feel him staring at me. I didn’t bother to look out the peephole because he knows to stay just out of sight.

Pumpkin, my one-year-old orange tabby, jumps up onto the bed and kneads the blanket with his claws a moment before lying down beside me. As usual, he presses up against my body. Even though he purrs loud enough to wake the dead, his nearness is comforting. It means I’m not completely alone in the world. I’m still getting used to living alone. I moved out of my dad’s house just two years ago, when I graduated from University of Chicago. I’m still getting the hang of trying to adult on my own.

I already took my melatonin tonight to help me sleep, but my mind still races. A doctor once offered to prescribe me sleeping pills—something far more powerful—but I declined. I don’t want to take anything stronger because I’m afraid I won’t hear him if he should finally manage to get inside my apartment while I’m asleep.

Day and night, I have to be vigilant.

It’s windy tonight—not surprising as they call Chicago The Windy City. My old single-pane bedroom window is rattling, which is unnerving. My apartment building was constructed in the 1940s, and it’s a bit drafty, especially up here on the second floor. My unit is located along the back of the building, so my windows and wooden balcony overlook the resident parking lot in the rear, as well as the small park beyond. I’ve never been to the little park, but I often open my window so I can hear the children playing there.

I yawn.

My body is tired, but my mind can’t relax.

He could be out there right now, in the hallway, waiting for me to let down my guard. Waiting for his chance to strike.

Pumpkin stretches out beside me. When I reach down to scratch his ears, the purring intensifies. His warm weight feels good against my hip.

He’s my little buddy. He’s all I’ve got. I thought about getting a dog once, thinking he would make a good deterrent, but I quickly dismissed the idea because dogs need to go outside to do their business. I don’t go outside. Ever. I can’t very well walk a dog, but I can take care of a cat. I even found a vet who makes house calls for homebound clients.

Homebound. That’s me. I haven’t stepped foot outside my apartment in two years, not since I moved out of my father’s house in Lincoln Park and into a place of my own. My dad told me I was crazy for thinking I could live on my own. Maybe he’s right, but it was something I needed to do. Living with him had become too painful.

Thinking about my father is depressing. We had such a good relationship at one time—that was until my mother passed away when I was eight. It was like a switch got flipped—shortly after her death, my father’s demeanor toward me changed almost overnight, to the point he openly showed his contempt for me. Even as a child, I could see it—feel it. I wondered even then if he blamed me for my mom’s death. For her murder.

Today, our relationship is more strained than ever. He thinks I’m imagining the stalker who terrorizes me. He says it’s all in my head—that I’m crazy. That I’m paranoid.

But I’m not.

He is out there—maybe even right this second—watching and waiting.

Just as I’m about to drift off, I hear a thump when something heavy strikes my apartment door. Pumpkin flies off the bed and hides underneath. I flinch violently, and now I’m wide awake again, my heart pounding. Adrenalin floods my body, and I find it difficult to breathe.

I pull my blankets up around my neck and roll onto my side, facing away from the bedroom door and clutching the spare pillow beside me for comfort. I don’t dare go look. That can wait until morning. Whatever it is, I just hope it doesn’t leave a blood stain on the door mat. I’ve already had to replace three of them.

* * *

The next morning, I’m awakened early by a panic attack. My pulse is hammering because I know I’m going to find something horrible outside my apartment door. I’ve learned from experience that it’s best to take care of these things right away. Otherwise, the smell—and sometimes the mess—gets worse.

After a quick stop in the bathroom to pee, I brush my hair and put it up in a ponytail to keep it safely out of my face during the extraction procedure. I grab a pair of disposable gloves and an extra-duty garbage bag from beneath the sink and head to the living room.

Armed with everything I need, I slowly approach my door. I unlock the first deadbolt, then the second one, and then the third. With the chain lock still in place, I open the door a crack, just enough that I can see outside. Sure enough, there’s a plastic grocery bag on my welcome mat. I’m afraid I know what’s in it.

I release the chain lock, open the door just enough that I can stick my head out and check the hallways. I don’t see anyone, thank goodness. It’s still early, and most of my neighbors haven’t left for work yet.

I gingerly pick up one of the bag handles and peer inside as what looks like a dead squirrel, flattened and shriveled up. Roadkill. It’s been dead a long time, which is good as there hopefully won’t be any bodily fluids leaking out.

Kneeling, I grab the grocery bag by one of its handles and carefully lower it into the trash bag. Then I remove my gloves, drop them into the bag, too, and quickly tie a knot. I leave the trash bag on my welcome mat for my neighbor, Darren, to pick up and toss down the trash chute when he leaves for work. His apartment is right next to mine, so he won’t miss seeing the bag. He’ll know what to do.

Thank goodness for Darren. I don’t know what I’d do without him.

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