Page 90 of The Woman on the Jury

If I couldn’t, well, I could just hang there until she got home from work. Whenever that was.

Waiting on Lauren was leaps and bounds better than trying to avoid Cosimo and the strange, conflicting feelings I had toward him.

I wouldn’t let myself look back, even if everything in me wanted to see if they were behind me, if they were gaining on me.

I kept my focus on the street, on the next block I needed to turn onto, then her brick building ahead of me.

“Miss Whitlock,” the doorman greeted me with a warm smile as he pulled open the door for me, seemingly oblivious to the panic that was still twisting in my stomach, sure someone was going to reach out and grab me at any moment.

Cosimo’s men.

The brothers.

Someone.

But, just like that, I was inside Lauren’s building.

Safe.

I rode the elevator and walked down the hall toward her apartment, knocking, but hearing nothing. I hadn’t been expecting to.

I leaned back against her door, pulling out my phone, and bringing up the wifi to sign into hers, knowing the password by heart.

I had no luck remembering her number.

But I did remember that she was on my socials, and that I could download the app, sign in, and message her on there.

Laur, please unlock your apartment door. I need to stay with you for a bit.

She was busy at work, always. I never knew her to respond to me except on her lunch or dinner breaks. And even then, rarely.

So I was shocked when I saw the dot-dot-dot appear next to her picture almost as soon as I’d messaged her.

Halle! Jesus Christ! I’ve been worried sick. I’ve been texting and calling!

There was a beep and click of her door, and I rushed inside before it could lock again.

I haven’t had my phone.

Then I shot her my new number.

It was all of five seconds before my phone was ringing in my hand.

“Hey,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Thanks for letting me in,” I said, finding tears pricking my eyes. Maybe I hadn’t been too far off with the tampon stunt, if I was suddenly so emotional over everything.

“Halle, what the hell is going on?” she hissed, voice low, like she didn’t want anyone to hear.

“It’s a long story,” I admitted.

“I need to hear it. The shop has been closed. Fordays. I was about to file a Missing Persons report.”

“Someone attacked my grandfather,” I told her. “He’s been in the hospital for a while,” I added.

“What?” she snapped, louder now, not caring what anyone thought. “What do you mean?”

“Someone came into the shop, knocked him out, then beat the hell out of him. Then,” I went on, wanting to get it all out at once, “one night, they broke into my apartment and attacked me.”

“Holy shit. Oh, my God. Are you okay?” she asked, voice tight.

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