After Her

by Amber Kay

  “No,” I tell myself after tucking the card away. I have my hands full enough with Vivian.

  I can’t control them both at once. I amble further up the walkway, between Sasha’s mini-coop and some random red Pinto occupying the space beside my car. The closer I approach, the clearer I see the sheet of paper tucked beneath my windshield wiper. I don’t find it odd…at first.

  Most of the students around here belong to organizations that require they type up some cheap flyers promoting whatever fraternity or sorority they belong to. I suspect nothing but solicitation. I usually discard these things. Sasha and I get so many a month that the eighty percent of our trash intake is packed with promotional leaflets.

  I walk past my car, swiping the flyer without a second thought, not bothering to read it until I'm halfway up the second flight of stairs en route to my apartment. My hand grips the metal stairway banister. It’s not a conscious reaction and not something I think to do until I realize that I'm nauseous after reading the flyer.

  “Sleep with one eye open around them,” it says. “Signed Anonymous.”

  Nowhere on the flyer does it reveal its author. I buckle at the knees, fearing I might collapse down the stairs as my thoughts run rampant, fueled with nothing but accusations.

  My suspicion lands on yesterday’s encounter, something that I thought was a fluke I could forget. That man and his camera. The one I’d seen looming behind my car. He wasn’t just snapping pictures. He was warning me.

  * * *

  I'm in my car before I know it. Autopilot is the mode I'm in because I don’t remember the next few minutes. I remember traffic and red lights. I remember stop signs and bumpy roads. Nothing else comes to mind even after I’ve reached my destination.

  I'm sure I’d read the address correctly from Adrian’s business card. Even so, I don’t think a place like this could exist anywhere, but downtown. At night, I'm sure it’s lit up, top to bottom like a Christmas tree glistening in the heart of the city.

  I spend several minutes adjusting my eyes to the sight, using my hand to block the glint of sun reflecting light from the glass windows. According to Forbes, it’s seventy floors of glass and steel. A phallic-shaped skyscraper clearly drafted by an architect with some disturbing fascination with the male anatomy.

  I wonder if that part is intentional. However, I may be exaggerating. There just aren’t any buildings this tall in Hamilton, Montana. The tallest structure there is the midtown clock tower, a mere ten stories high, certainly no rival for the Big Ben of London. I marvel the sight of the glass skyscraper for several seconds before gathering the nerve to exit my car.

  Upon nearing the front entrance and spotting my reflection in the polished double glass doors, I realize I'm dressed nothing like the people entering. Most are clad in nice suits and pressed slacks or khakis. The women especially look regal, refined like airbrushed photos from a magazine photo shoot.

  I’ve arrived fresh from lunch with Vivian wearing my worst jeans and a loose T-shirt that hangs off my shoulder like extra skin. My hair is windswept, not even remotely tame enough to fit in with this corporate herd. Any other day, I’d be self-conscious. Today, under the current circumstances, I don’t give a damn about my appearance.

  I stagger into the lobby, momentarily in awe of the crème marble floors. Every inch of the interior is made of glass. The walls, the floors, even the elevators are translucent glass.

  The only area spared of this strange architectural quirk are the ceilings, which are for some reason made from mirrored marble. I glance around and see myself in every wall, staring back as if it’s a different person watching me.

  The lobby isn’t without company. Several people converse in huddles, some carrying briefcases, others with stacks of files tucked beneath their arms. Most of them ignore me. Some shoot me curious stares. A few even glare, their probing eyes scolding me for being here. It’s obvious that I'm not welcomed.

  I’ve told myself the very same thing several times since I step through those glass doors. I ignore that nagging feeling despite every urge in me to run while I still can, but I'm sure that he already knows I'm here. Those big brother security cameras probably zeroed in on me the moment I entered the building.

  “Excuse me, miss?” someone says when I realize that I've been idle for too long. I turn toward the receptionist desk in the center of the room where a pretty brunette stares daggers at me. “Miss?” she says again. “Can I help you?”

  I shuffle through the crowd, swallowing my anxiety like a gulp of water, bypassing the spectators. The pretty brunette moves from behind the rotunda desk to meet me, never once allowing her eyes to veer too far from me almost like she’s afraid I’ll make a run for it. She’s probably deciding whether to call security.

  “Can I help you?” she repeats.

  “If you could point me to Mr. Lynch’s office, I’d greatly appreciate it,” I say.

  Something about my request sends her on the defense. That phony smile melts away, replaced by something trying to be polite instead of being genuine. This must be protocol. I recognize that smile anywhere. It’s an exact replica of the “customer friendly” façade that I'm forced to put on every day at work.

  “Can I get your name please?” she asks, blatantly attempting to maintain some sense of professionalism.

  “Inform him that Cassandra Tate is here to see him,” I say. “He’ll know what that means, I promise.”

  The pretty brunette lightens two shades paler. Her face, a plethora of several emotions at once. Hidden beneath that mask is a look of disappointment, like a kid told that her father won’t be attending Christmas dinner.

  “I'm sorry, but Mr. Lynch doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.”

  “How do you know if I don’t have an appointment when you haven’t even called to tell him that I'm here?” I ask.

  “Because I make all of his appointments,” she retorts. “I don’t remember him adding your name to his list of personal contacts so if you could please just show your way out, I won’t have to call security.”

  “Listen,” I say, hoping to maintain my composure. “Whatever is going on between you and Mr. Lynch is none of my business. Anything going on between Mr. Lynch and me is none of your business, but I assure you that it’s not what you think it is.”

  “I don’t think I can help you, Miss Tate,” she says with nothing, but apathy in her voice. “Not unless you can confirm an appointment.”

  “I don’t have an appointment, but I need to see him,” I say. “Either you tell me what floor his office is on or I’ll find it myself. If you and he are as…close as I think you are, then you already know that he doesn’t like anyone making decisions for him. How do you think he’ll react to you choosing whom he can and can’t see?”

  It takes only a minute for her to deliberate before staggering back to her desk. I watch her trembling hands grasp the phone, fingers hardly able to steady long enough to press the appropriate buttons on the keypad.

  “Um, yes Mr. Lynch you have Cassandra Tate here to see you,” she murmurs into the phone. “I told her that you weren’t available, but she—” She pauses, indicating an interruption from him. After a few affirming nods, she finally acquiesces. “Yes sir. I understand. I’ll send her right up. I’m so sorry.”

  I hear the answering dial tone of Adrian’s reply. It’s obvious that she tried to argue with him about seeing me, but in true fashion, Adrian got the last word.

  “His office is on the top floor,” she reluctantly replies. I can’t helping feeling a little smug, watching her choke on the words.

  “Thank you,” I say with a victorious smile. As I head toward the elevator, I'm sure she’s glaring at the back of skull. Once inside the elevator, I press the button marked70 then hold my breath as it ascends.

  It doesn’t occur to how high up I am until I stare out the translucent elevator doors and notice every person in the lobby fade to tiny dots the higher I ascend. I close my eyes, counting to ten be
fore the doors open with a dinging sound.

  Atop the seventieth floor, I'm met by the massive archangel sculpture in the center of the room. It’s so ostentatious that it draws the eye away from everything else. This is Adrian’s doing, I'm sure.

  The rest of the floor seems vacant with only a row of empty leather chairs dotting the outskirts of the front room and a rotunda desk with no receptionist. White carpet covers the floor from wall-to-wall, so thick that it fleeces my shoes.

  What catches my focus next is the window to my left, a massive ceiling-to-floor portal overlooking the entire city. I move without thinking toward the view, pressing my hands to the glass. The sun lingers on the horizon, hiding between the clouds probably mere minutes away from setting.

  The tips of neighboring skyscrapers and buildings sit shrouded by fog coasting down from the sky. The glass muffles the sound of traffic, voices and all of the usual city noise even when I press my ear against it.

  “It’s soundproof in case you’re wondering,” announces a disembodied voice. I whirl around, startled by the sound, but unable to pinpoint its source. I spot cameras eyeing me from corners of the ceiling and wonder how long he’s been watching me.

  “My apologies for frightening you,” he says. I notice the speakers overhead, amplifying his voice from every corner of the room.

  “I wasn’t expecting an intercom system,” I say.

  “Sometimes I'm too lazy to leave my office.”

  “Apparently,” I reply while glancing at the security cameras staring down at me. “I feel stupid talking to your security cameras and intercom. Why don’t you tell me where your office is located?”

  “Down the hall, first door on your right,” he says. “I’ll buzz you in.”

  I have an immediate urge to smooth my tousled chignon, but I'm sure he’d see me in those cameras. This urge is a shameful offense makes me feel so silly. I have never been the type of girl to primp for the sake of a man, especially not when that man is Adrian Lynch.

  The corridor walls resemble the same translucent glass material as the ones on the ground floor. As I saunter down the corridor, I note my reflection in them, also able to see into Adrian’s office through the walls.

  He stands with his back to me, browsing the mini-bar sitting atop a mobile cart near his desk. I allow myself a voyeuristic moment to watch him for a minute. After pouring himself a drink, he ambles toward his ceiling-to-wall office windows and lingers there, gazing out at the skyline of the city like a king from atop his throne, admiring an empire below.

  My focus lingers on him much longer than I’m willing to admit. It doesn’t occur to me how much I enjoy leering until I notice a pocket of moisture between my thighs that wasn’t there before. He turns, finally, to wave me in. I hesitantly enter, feeling the pit of my stomach weigh like a dumbbell in my abdomen.

  “Cassandra,” he greets with a familiar smile. “I presumed you’d call before arriving, but I'm glad you didn’t.”

  I wring my hands to stop them from trembling when he moves toward me.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Anything non-alcoholic?” I say. “I’ve learned my lesson about getting drunk with you.”

  Adrian smirks.

  “I have juice. Grape or Orange?”

  “Grape will do.”

  He saunters to the mini-bar and pours me juice. My hand shudders around the glass, unable to calm from the nerves inside.

  “You’re anxious,” Adrian notes with a grin. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

  “That remains to be seen,” I reply after swallowing a mouthful of juice. Adrian watches intently while nursing his own drink, too concerned with me to sip it. I consume every drop of juice and crave seconds, but this isn’t a leisurely visit between two old friends. I'm not here to toast drinks with Adrian Lynch.

  “I'm not foolish enough to believe that you came here with the intent to spend time with me, so why are you here?” he asks while returning to his desk to take a seat and put his feet up along the edge of the top.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I say. “I feel like I just got in my car and drove without thinking about the destination.”

  “Excuse me?” He leans forward against his desk, gulping the rest of his whiskey in one shot and wincing at the taste.

  “A series of odd events have occurred in my life recently and I want to know if you had anything to do with them.”

  “If I were behind any sinister events disrupting your life, you’d know for certain that it was me,” he says.

  “I didn’t come here to hear riddles Adrian. I might need your help.”

  He pours himself a second drink in silence, appearing to ponder my words.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “Yesterday when you dropped me off at my apartment, a man that I don’t know was waiting for me.”

  “And you assume that I'm responsible for that?”

  “You said you had some disgruntled clients. Do any of them know about me?”

  “You want to know if I have any clients who’d go after you to get to me?” he asks.

  “It’s silly, I know, but be real with me.”

  He ponders my answer.

  “I can think of a couple who might still have a grudge against me, but I don’t think any of them are crazed enough to resort to stalking,” he chuckles. “Even if that were the case, you know I’d protect you.”

  I slap the flyer onto his desk. He doesn’t react at all to the words typed across it. He swigs his whiskey and gradually appears to express some semblance of interest after several seconds of ignoring me.

  “What is this?” he asks dispassionately while examining the crumpled piece of paper.

  “Someone left it under my windshield wiper this afternoon,” I say. “I think they were warning me.”

  “Of what?”

  “To stay away from Vivian, more specifically you,” I say. “I'm starting to think that the only thing I need protection from…is you.”

  Adrian rises from his chair once more, leaving his glass behind. When he approaches, my instincts order me to move. My body does the opposite, planting my feet firm on the ground. It’s become a habit with him for me to expect the worst anytime he moves. I always feel like I'm bracing for impact.

  He especially gives me reason for pause. I’ve caught a glimpse inside his head and didn’t like what I saw. His past actions have served as perfect examples as to why I shouldn’t let him get too close.

  “Why are you here?” he asks again, his hands linked behind his back. “If this anonymous flyer was enough to establish every reason for you to stay away from us, then why are you here disobeying it?”

  “I guess I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt,” I say, my voice a rasp whisper.

  He laughs so vociferously that his voice echoes, making the room sound like the inside of a tunnel, making me feel like I'm standing in the mouth of a canyon. When he turns away, it’s so abrupt that I flinch, expecting him to hit me.

  “You didn’t have to go to such great lengths to get my attention, Cassandra.”

  I clench my fists at my sides, wanting to restrain them, wanting to appear unfazed, but I’m not as practiced in the art of nonchalance like Vivian. I can’t hold myself together like her. When I feel something, it’s always apparent on my face as if someone stamps the word across my forehead.

  “What?” I say.

  “You travelled all this way with some bogus flyer with a vague warning typed on it just so you’d have an excuse to visit my office? Forgive me for finding this situation a little more than odd, if not amusing.”

  “If anyone is desperate for attention, it’s you.”

  “You still haven’t denied my previous accusation,” he replies offhandedly, leaving me to seethe in the aftermath of his words. With nothing to retort with, I march toward the door in a huff, wanting away from him.

  “Cassandra, don’t leave angry,” he says just as my hand clutches the knob. �
�I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “I'm not embarrassed.”

  “Is there some other reason why you haven’t stop trembling since you walked into my office? I can adjust thermostat to make you more comfortable or provide you a jacket if you’d like. Just come back and sit. We’ll discuss this in a more civil manner.”

  “I'm not embarrassed,” I say. “If you really want the truth, I'm scared.”

  “Scared?”

  “I’ve never been stalked before, okay? Until I met you and Vivian, my life was pretty damn normal.”

  “You’re scared of me?” he asks, his voice ripe with disappointment that surprises me.

  “Give me a reason not to be,” I say.

  “Don’t believe everything you read in those tabloids,” he says. “Those people are paid to make others look like monsters.”

  “Some would argue that you are a monster.”

  “I don’t believe you’d allow yourself to be alone with me in a soundproof room, if you actually believed that,” he replies.

  I have nothing to argue against that assumption. On some subconscious level, I’m heavy with doubt. I dismiss these inhibitions and approach him, stopping midway to gauge the situation. He makes no sudden movements, permitting me to relax.

  “Why is this floor soundproof?” I ask abruptly.

  “If I told you, you might not like the answer,” he says with a light chuckle.

  “At this point, nothing about you would surprise me.”

  “Take a seat,” he orders. As usual, I'm tentative, but my curiosity is wielding control of this vessel right now. I sit and watch him pour himself another glass of whiskey. He presses some button on his desk and curtains automatically drape the windows, blocking the dimming light of sunset noon.

  “Before Vivian became ill, she liked to visit my office a lot,” he says. “Every day at noon, we would have lunch delivered and toast wine. She loved that view of the skyline, spent hours just staring at it. I believe that she was happiest here.”