by Ker Dukey
I’m so lame. He was probably making sure I was okay, wanted to see my face to gage if I was in pain. Punching my pillow, I turn on my back and look up at the ceiling. I need to start pushing myself out of my comfort zone or these nights alone with my fingers and images of a neighbor I’ve never met will be all I have.
Seven
I’m running down the street naked, feet burning from the asphalt tearing at the soles. “Help me please! Anyone?” My lungs scream, but the street is deserted. The sun creeping over the horizon offers me its warm embrace. I run and run toward the sun, adrenaline pumping the blood in my veins. A gasp leaves my lips as someone steps out from the shadows, blocking my path, eclipsing the sun. A knife plunges into my stomach, stealing my breath. Blood pools around the steel blade. I wrap my hands around the handle and the hands holding it, hissing as it’s yanked from my skin and plunged back in, stealing my air—my life—my soul. My eyes travel the length of the killer’s body, his face masked in black. I reach up and scratch, pulling until the masks slips and green eyes bore down on me….
“No!” I bolt upright, my heart racing. A dull throb zaps in my ankle. My room is flooded with daylight. It was just a dream. You’re awake. Breathe. In, out. In, out.
Pushing myself to stand, a stinging in my palm causes me to wince in pain. Small dots of blood bubble from nail indents. Grabbing some tissue, I clean it up the best I can and slip into the bathroom to wash up.
“Her window was still open, but I didn’t see her again this morning. You think she’s okay?” Charlotte asks as I shuffle into the kitchen.
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
“Oh, I don’t know, there’s a killer lurking,” she scoffs.
Her words stab at my heart, my dream lingering. “I think you’re overreacting. I also think you need to stop spying on the neighbor.” I grab a mug and pour some coffee.
“She’s the one usually watching us.”
“Maybe she got bored of seeing your naked ass.”
“That’s doubtful.” She smirks.
“I have to get ready for work,” I groan, gulping my coffee and shuffling back to my room to get clothes on.
Everyone is on edge. An eerie unsettled atmosphere hangs heavy in the air. The shop is less busy today, and those who do come in don’t stay.
Goosebumps rise over my skin as I navigate around the shop. A silhouette standing in the window causes my heart to spike. Condensation mists the window, keeping him hidden from me. My heart thuds. When they don’t move, I march to the door, pull it open, and look out. Embarrassment eats at me when a man stares over his shoulder at me as he waits for his dog to finish doing his business. Anxious, I go to the restroom and splash water on my face. Get a grip. The stall door bursts open, making me jump. A woman eyeballs me. “You okay?” She raises a thin, drawn-on eyebrow.
“I’m fine.” Are you? I dry my hands and go back to work. This day needs to be over.
The overhead bell rings, and the ambiance appears to shift. A pull inside me tugs my head up. Blood rushes in my veins, making the room spin. You. Half his face is covered by a heavy beard, hiding him from me, but I watch, transfixed, as his tongue darts out to lick over his fat bottom lip. A sense of déjà vu envelops me, warming me all over.
“Excuse her,” Charlotte sings, appearing from the backroom before nudging me with her hip to move over. “What can I get you?”
My heart is racing. My palms are sweating. He’s looking at me like he knows me—like he’s been inside my skin and lived there. His intensity is vaguely familiar, a memory I can’t quite grasp. “Do you want to get a room?” Charlotte snorts, pointing between us. I realize he hasn’t answered her and we’re just standing here staring at each other. My cheeks heat. I shake my head to clear the haze.
“Um…sorry, did you want to order?” I ask, a hitch in my voice.
“Espresso. Double shot.” He smiles tightly, making my womb squeeze.
“Why don’t you take a seat and she’ll bring it over?” Charlotte offers. He keeps his eyes trained on me for a few more seconds, then moves toward the back of the shop where he takes a seat in the corner booth. “What the hell was that?” Charlotte breathes, fanning herself with a spare napkin.
“That was weird, right?” I question, feeling a nervous flutter dance through my body.
“Well, you’re weird, so...” She shrugs, pressing the button on the espresso machine.
The entire shop appears to shrink around me as I make my way to the back where Green Eyes is sitting. He’s watching me. Every step matches the marching of my heartbeat.
Da-dum.
Da-dum.
Da-dum.
The atmosphere thickens, threatening to suffocate me as I come to a stop at his table. His large frame makes the booth look like children’s furniture, his broad shoulders filling the jacket he’s wearing perfectly. Strong, powerful.
“Espresso?” I say meekly, placing it on the table in front of him. My heart beats with alarm about to crash through my chest and land on the table with a splat.
“Thank you.” His voice washes through me, caressing all the right places. His brow furrows when he flits his eyes over the front page of the paper he’s holding. My eyes drop to see Abigail’s face taking up almost the entire page.
College Student Slain.
My stomach knots. “You kinda look like her.” He says in a deep, rumbling tone, his lids drooping a little as he studies me.
“I knew her,” I softly murmur. I’ve never really thought about our similarities. Long hair, delicate features, same age—thud—same class—thud.
“I’m sorry.” He sounds so sincere, like he’s speaking to a family member of hers.
My cheeks burn. “We weren’t really friends.” I should go back to work, but it’s too late. My butt is already brushing the seat opposite him. Taking a second to really look at him, I notice a small scattering of freckles across his nose. They remind me of the constellation Aquila, the eagle who carried Zeus’s thunderbolts. His eyes are intense and stormy. Deep forest green with flecks of brown like the leaves on the cusp of autumn. They appear to absorb the light and almost glow. Beautiful.
“Is there something on my face?” he asks, wiping his hand across his mouth, and I realize I’ve been staring at him without speaking.
“Do I know you?” I find myself whispering, my soul reaching out across the table. Is this normal?
“It feels that way, doesn’t it?” He smiles, his eyes devouring my face. I shrug out of the daze and frown. He shifts in his seat and fidgets with a napkin, tearing pieces off and littering the table in front of him. The silence hangs heavy.
“Lizzy,” Charlotte calls my name, saving us both from the awkward silence.
“I have to get back to work.” I reluctantly stand and turn my back to him, sneaking a look over my shoulder when I’m near Charlotte. He’s still watching me. Charlotte’s standing, arms folded, back straight, her eyes focused.
“What’s up?” I ask, already dreading the answer.
“Look.” Her eyes flick to the TV. All eyes are drawn to the news. I stand awkwardly, wringing my hands together as we all stare up at the screen. A blonde woman sits next to an older man, a picture of Abigail in the corner of the screen.
“The gruesome discovery of twenty-two-year-old student Abigail Cane’s body was found around nine a.m. Monday morning by a passerby. The local authorities are withholding the details of her death, but we can confirm a murder investigation has been launched.”
“Why aren’t they telling us more?” She waves her hands at the screen. Movement shifts behind us. “We like to keep some cards to ourselves early in an investigation,” Detective Barnett announces. I didn’t see him come in. His imposing stance looms.
“Well, I think the public deserves to know if we’re at risk,” Charlotte scorns, folding her arms once more and giving him her best intimidating eyes. His lips hook, slightly amused by her boldness.
“Understandable, but when we have
more information to share, it will be shared. As of right now, we have extra police patrols canvasing and we are doing everything possible to keep the public safe. It’s our top priority.”
My eyes seek out green, but there’s just the empty booth and the discarded paper, he’s gone.
Where did you go? My mood deflates. The disappointment is irrational, but it’s there all the same. “Well, what do we do if we’re worried about someone?” Charlotte asks. I round the counter to serve a customer while still listening to their conversation.
“Are you worried about someone?” Flicking my gaze to hers, I shake my head no. She ignores me.
“My neighbor. We haven’t seen her in a couple of days,” she tells him.
Humor flees his features as deep lines cut into his eyes. “Is it unusual not to see her every day?” I finish with the customer and give Charlotte my full attention.
“Kinda.” She shrugs, looking at me for confirmation.
His gaze follows hers. “Have you tried knocking?”
Charlotte looks like she’s regretting ever starting this conversation. Rolling her eyes, she says, “No. She doesn’t live in our building.”
Furrowing his brow, he places a hand on his hip, flashing his badge. “She lives in the building opposite ours,” I clarify.
“So, how do you see her every day?”
“Through her window,” Charlotte snaps like it’s obvious.
“It’s not as creepy as it sounds,” I add, flames growing up my neck.
The humor is back, curling his lips. “Well, it’s nice you’re looking out for your neighbors. If you get any serious concern, you can contact the station. They will send an officer over to do a welfare check.”
“Can I get you anything?” I ask, fidgeting. He must have come in for a reason.
“I’ll take coffee.”
“To go?” I blurt out. I don’t know why, but he makes me nervous, I don’t want him to stay.
“Sure.” He broadens his smile, looking between Charlotte and me.
There’s an oddness hanging in the air between us as I go about making his coffee. Sliding it across the counter toward him, I wave off his money, and say, “On us. Thanks for keeping us safe.” He offers a nod in recognition, and I exhale when the door closes behind him.
“Where did Mr. Sexy Face dash off to?” Charlotte croons, darting her eyes to the back of the shop. Walking back there to collect his cup, my insides jolt to see the coffee still sitting in the cup, the paper discarded, the front page circled with a red ring around Abigail’s face.
My hand slaps against my chest, my eyes scanning the shop and through the window but he’s nowhere.
“Hey, you want to stay on for an extra hour tonight? It’s been busier than usual with that girl being cut up,” Jeff asks, adjusting his junk. Images of him at his desk getting himself off resurface, making me almost heave. I toss my sandwich in the trash, losing my appetite. I hate the words he chooses in regard to Abigail, but don’t bother wasting time telling him he’s an asshole.
“Sure.” I rub a phantom ache on my forehead.
“Good girl.” He winks. Gross.
Coming back through to the shop, I see Stephan and Charlotte in a heated conversation. He grabs her wrist across the table, and she winces in pain. Before I can make it over to them, she pulls away, our gazes clashing. “What the hell was that?” I gasp.
“Nothing. He’s just being an asshole.”
I watch her disappear out the back, dumbfounded. Marching to where Stephan is still nursing a black coffee, I slip into the seat Charlotte vacated.
He looks up, surprised to see me. “Hey.” He smiles.
“What the hell was that?” I demand, slapping my palm on the table.
“What do you mean?” He furrows his brow. Was I imagining their interaction looking hostile?
“I saw you grab Charlotte’s arm,” I argue.
Exhaling hard, he leans forward. “She was being forward—too forward. I told her I wasn’t interested, and she got upset, then said something about you never being into me. She was being bitchy. I just told her to stop.” Embarrassment is becoming too familiar inside me lately.
“I’m sorry she said anything to you. She’s worried you see our friendship as more and blames me for it,” I mumble before chewing on my nails.
My muscles coil tight as we sit in silence, his eyes probing me. “We’re friends, right?” he finally says.
“Of course we are.” I reach across the table and rest my hand on his forearm.
“I don’t need your roommate warning me off and telling me you don’t see me that way. I’ve never made you feel like I want more from you, have I?” He looks pained. I’m going to kill Charlotte for making our friendship awkward.
“No. God, no. I appreciate you so much and need you as a friend. I’m sorry she gets in her own head and can’t help making everything about sex,” I groan.
“She just uses sex because she fears rejection of something more. You’re a psych major, Liz, it’s not hard to figure her out.” He shakes his head, irritated.
“That’s why you should give her a pass.” I beg with my eyes.
“Fine. Whatever.” He smiles, but it’s strained.
“Thank you. You want food? I have cake or a day-old sandwich.” This gets me a genuine smile. “I’ll pass, but thanks.”
Eight
Charlotte’s giggles echo through the empty apartment. A guy’s voice mumbles something, making her screech. I sometimes wish my life was as uncomplicated as hers.
Pulling out a carton of juice from the fridge that’s empty and been put back in because apparently, I live with a child I silently fume tossing it in the trash and opt for a bottle of water to quench my thirst instead. Walking over to the window to check if our neighbor has returned the bottle falls from my grip, and my blood runs cold. It can’t be just a coincidence.
“Charlotte,” I bark, my voice booming through the apartment. “Charlotte, come here!” I urge. Feet pound across the hallway until she’s standing beside me, her hair a mess and lipstick smudged. “What?” she snaps.
“Look.” I point to the window. Looking between the window and me, she takes a few seconds to comprehend what she’s seeing.
“What the fuck?” Her jaw drops open.
“Did you take out our trash?” I ask, nerves eating away at my guts.
“Yes. It can’t be the same one. This’s too fucked up.” She cradles herself, her voice trembling. “Who sent you that rose?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. I had thought it was my aunt. They all dropped red roses into my mother’s grave, but mine was black. Who would know that unless they had been at the funeral?
“Maybe we’re just being paranoid.” She finally shakes off her fear.
“The curtain moved.” I gasp, rushing to opening our window and peering out.
“We should call the police,” Charlotte hisses.
“Hello?” I call out.
Nothing.
“Hellooo,” I try again.
“Let’s call the police.” Charlotte grabs at me in full panic mode.
Slamming the window closed, I turn to her, “Or we go over and knock on the damn door.” Is someone toying with me? Did Abigail die because of me?
No. No. No.
“Maybe she’s fucking with us. She could have sent the rose,” Charlotte announces, her hands waving around.
“How would she know?” I croak, wringing my hands.
“Know what?” she asks, incredulous.
Tucking my hair behind my ear, I pace the space between us. “I placed a black rose on my mother’s coffin,” I admit, shifting from one foot to the other.
“What the fuck, Lizzy?” she booms before shaking her head. “No. It could still be a coincidence.”
“Abigail’s murder was on the anniversary of my mother’s,” I confess, the weight on my chest growing heavier, compressing the air from my lungs.
“Of your mother’s what? D
eath? You know, you’ve never told me how she died.”
“I don’t like to talk about it,” I grunt, my nails seeking out scars to pick apart. She just stares at me, her brow crashing. The guy she brought home appears from her bedroom shirtless with his jeans open, scratching the back of his head. “We doing this or what?”
“I’m going over there,” I tell her, ignoring him and forcing her to make a choice. She can come with me or stay here and finish getting laid.
“I think we’re overreacting.” She half laughs, but there’s no humor in it. She’s punishing me for not opening up to her about my mom. Walking over to the front door, I slip on some boots and grab a jacket. “Liz, don’t go over there in the dark. Wait until morning.”
“What’s going on?” the guy asks.
“Just go back to my room and warm yourself up, okay?” Charlotte turns away from him and walks over to me. Grabbing my jacket from my hands, she holds it hostage. “Please?” she pleads.
“I’m going,” I state stubbornly.
Her eyes burn into mine, but I hold steady. “For fuck’s sake. I can’t let you go alone.” She throws my jacket around her shoulders, cussing me out the whole way down the stairs.
The air is frigid when we push out onto the street. “Hold the door,” I call out, catching someone entering the building next to ours.
Charlotte’s appearance earns her a raised brow as we ascend the stairs with the guy who held the door. “Can I help you?” she asks with more attitude than necessary. He continues to stare at her, half naked, coat gaping open, giving him a peep show. He doesn’t reply and stops on the floor before the one we need.