by R. R. Banks
"Abigail?"
She looks up at me as I approach, but doesn't smile.
"Oh, hi. What are you doing around here?"
Her response is short, and she glares at her car as she says it.
"I'm meeting a business associate. Usually we'd meet at the office, but apparently, I've been hit with a powerful wave of holiday nostalgia this year and was convinced to walk to his house instead. How about you? Do you live around here?"
I realize Evan mentioned she had only recently moved to the city but never actually told me where she was living.
"Yes," she says, straightening from examining her tires, and brushing several errant strands of dark hair away from her eyes. "Right there." She gestures at the building behind me. "Several of the teachers at the school live there."
She walks around the front of the car to the driver side and looks at those tires.
"Is something wrong with your car?" I ask.
"My tires are flat," she says, sounding exasperated and deflated.
I step closer to the car and glance down at the tires.
"What the hell did you do to these things, drive them into an alligator's mouth? They're shredded to shit."
She stands up sharply and glares at me, but I can see tears welling in her eyes.
"I know," she manages to choke out.
"Is there somewhere you need to go?" I ask. "I've got to get to my meeting, but my car can take you somewhere."
"I'm supposed to go to Evan's house," she says. "I'm spending Thanksgiving with him. I just need to get out of the city for a while."
"Well, you aren't getting anywhere in this pitiful thing." I pull out my phone and send a fast text. "There'll be a car here in about 15 minutes. It will take you to him."
She looks at me with a startled expression.
"I can't afford a cab ride that distance," she says.
"It's not a cab," I tell her. "But if you'd rather, you can ask the driver to bring you to the bus station. I'm sure there's a stop somewhere near Evan's house. Have a good holiday."
I turn to walk away from her. I don't want to look at her anymore. The cold has brightened Abigail’s cheeks with a soft pink flush, and her glittering emerald eyes are even more striking in the sunlight. The last thing I want to do is feel the same tug in my belly I did when first meeting her.
********
Abigail
One month later…
I've counted the same car driving by my apartment building twelve times tonight. It probably went by several times more than that before I started counting. Each time it goes by, lights shine into my window. At first, I thought it might be headlights, but then I realized the other cars going down the street don't hit the window directly, and the lights aren't as bright. When I looked outside, I saw a dark car go by with a flashlight sticking out of the driver's side window. After the tenth time, I moved my Christmas tree in front of the window to block it. It doesn't stop all of the light, but it filters it enough that it's not as noticeable.
I toss the journal onto the table in front of me and curl my legs up beneath me. The blanket draped around my shoulders is like a shield as I sit in the middle of the couch, unsure of what to do next. Not for the first time in the last few days, I wish I had gone back to Evan's house when I first got off for winter break a week ago. It's been such a short time since I came back to the city after my Thanksgiving visit, but I felt so safe and comfortable at my brother's house, and I desperately want to feel like that again. As much as I don't want to admit it, the fear makes each day more stressful, and I feel it closing in around me. I've started to wonder if I'm losing my grip on reality. Each incident seems so small when viewed on its own. I don't want to believe it's possible I've crafted all of this or that I'm so trapped by my memories I can be manipulated into believing I'm in danger when I'm not. I honestly don't know which option is more terrifying, feeling Trevor creeping ever closer, or the possibility that none of this is actually happening, and that my own mind is the source of my torment.
The only reason I'm staying in the city is to attend the holiday party Eloise is hosting tomorrow. I'm still so new to the school, I don't want to make a bad impression by missing the first real social event of the year for teachers and staff. I've already packed and prepared everything to head back to my brother's house the moment it’s over, however. I plan on making my appearance at the party tomorrow, staying for as long as necessary, and leaving. I feel guilty for the reluctance I feel about spending time with the people who have done nothing but try to be my friends, but I can't wait to leave the city. Being back at Evan's house will give me a chance to breathe. Maybe a few weeks away will be enough to bore Trevor and make him leave me alone.
My thoughts drift back to the morning I left for Evan's house before Thanksgiving. I had the same thought then. I hoped my time away from my apartment would take away whatever amusement Trevor was getting from his visits that are getting increasingly frequent. Xavier pointing out to me that my tires weren't just flat but had been slashed, was an addition to my fear I really didn't need. He hadn't asked me if I knew how it happened. He barely even reacted. The intensity of his presence never wavered, but he made a fast phone call, and then left. It didn't really sink in that he was serious about calling a car for me until it slid up to the curb in front of me. Sleek and black, it obviously wasn't a taxi, and the well-dressed driver inside didn't strike me as someone trying to make a few extra dollars by being a rideshare driver.
The first thing I did when I got in the car was call Evan. I wanted him to know where I was and why I was going to be late, but I stopped short of telling him the tires had been purposely flattened. Instead, I told him I ran into Xavier and that he offered me a ride. When Evan was undeterred at the idea of me accepting a ride Xavier arranged, I decided to have the driver take me all the way to his house. It isn't something I usually do, and I felt awkward and uncomfortable not paying for the ride, but I wasn't interested in trying my luck at public transportation right at that moment. The thought of walking through the bus terminal or sitting in a crowded bus didn't seem like an option. I appreciated the solitude and anonymity of the empty back seat and tinted windows.
I won't have that kind of luxury tomorrow. After Evan brought me home, I used an uncomfortably large chunk of my savings to replace the tires on my car. I tell myself being alone in the car will be a nice break, but the drive seems longer and more dangerous than it ever has.
********
The next night…
I stayed at the party longer than I intended to. The promise of a room filled with laughter and light lured me in and kept me there, but when I realized what time it was, I said my goodbyes and rushed out of Eloise's home. When I turn onto the street, I can't help but notice how strangely still the street is. I'm accustomed to people roaming up and down the sidewalk in front of my apartment building at all times, never having a moment without the sound of voices or horns or even the distant hum of sirens. There are streams of muffled music in the air, but tonight, the dimness of the street is only dotted with the occasional person rushing through the cold into a nearby building. It seems a combination of festive celebrations and family gatherings have drawn everyone off the street and sidewalk, and I feel strangely alone as I park the car. My heels click loudly across the concrete as I run from my car up the steps to the front door of the apartment building. I can hear my breath in my ears as I pull my key out of my purse and fumble with it. My hands are cold, and I can't seem to get the key into the lock. The longer it takes, the more nervous I feel. Heat and fear prick at the back of my neck and crawl up my spine.
Not wanting to turn around, I glance up into the glass at the front door, hoping it will show me. The glass is too dark, and I can see nothing but my own pale face staring back at me. Drawing in a deep breath and letting it out in a cloud of white, I continue to fight with the lock. I hear footsteps behind me and I gasp, whipping around. My hand tightens around the keys as I hold them up like a weapon.
The man in front of me stops, taking a step back as though startled by my reaction to him.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to startle you."
I shake my head, swallowing hard to swallow the wave of nausea rolling through me.
"It's fine," I say.
He gestures toward the building.
"Do you know if Lisa Thornton lives here?" he asks.
I nod.
"She's one of my neighbors," I say. "Come on in."
I finally manage to get enough control over the key that I can open the door, and I hold it, letting the man step past me. Once in the entryway to the building, I pull the door tightly closed behind me and ensure it's locked. Chastising myself for my irrational reaction, I climb the steps to my apartment and open the door. Something is wrong. Something's different, but I can't figure it out. I pause inside the living room, feeling a sense of uncomfortable awareness raise the hairs on my arms, and cause my heart to beat a little faster in my chest.
After telling myself I can't just stand here, I make my way toward the bedroom. It's just a few more steps. If I get to my bedroom, I can grab my bags, and be on my way to Evan’s house. I don't even need to change out of my dress. It's not a far enough drive to worry about being uncomfortable in the dark green cocktail dress and sharp black heels I wore to the party. As soon as I turn on the light to my room, my heart jumps into my throat, strangling the scream that tries to come out. Across my bed, in harsh contrast to the crisp white comforter, is every piece of black lingerie I own.
Flimsy panties and bras I never wear, satin slips and a ridiculous negligee I bought a year ago to prove I could buy something sexy for myself, are meticulously organized against the comforter. Directly in the middle of the bed, resting over a lace camisole is a large piece of white paper. In jagged black writing across it is a message:
Are these for your new boyfriend?
The room blurs in front of me, and I feel like the floor is spinning beneath me. As my knees buckle beneath me, I reach out for the doorframe and feel my hands slide across it. The feeling of the wood under my palm reminds me of when Trevor tried to drag me down into the basement more than two years ago. That memory is enough to force me back to my feet. I run from my apartment and down the hallway to Lisa's door. I pound my fists on it, suddenly aware of the tears streaming down my face. My voice is painful and harsh in my throat, and I don't even know if she can hear me or understand a word I'm saying. I realize I don't know how long ago that lingerie was carefully laid out across my bed. Trevor could still be in my apartment. He could only be a few feet from me. I pound on the door harder, screaming to be let in. Seconds later, the door opens, and I force myself inside. I rush across the living room and duck down behind the couch. My sobs are the only thing I can hear, and even when I see Lisa's face in front of me, I'm so terrified I recoil from her touch.
Realizing I'm still holding my purse, I dig inside for my phone. My hands are shaking so hard I can’t open my contacts.
"Abigail, what's wrong?" Lisa asks. "What is it?"
I shove the phone toward her.
"Evan," I gasp through my tears.
"What's wrong?" the man from outside asks. "What happened?"
Lisa sees me shaking my head, and points towards the man.
"This is Peter," she says. "He's a friend of mine."
"Evan," I say again.
She looks at my phone and starts scrolling through it. Peter crouches down next to me, and I flinch away from him, but he doesn't move.
"What's wrong?" he asks. "Did something happen in your apartment?"
All I can do is nod, and Peter rushes out of the apartment. I hear Lisa muttering into the phone as she paces on the other side of the room. I want to stop him. He shouldn't be running into what could be an incredibly dangerous situation for someone he doesn't even know. This is my fight, and I can’t let him go alone. Despite everything inside me telling me to stop, I climb to my feet and force myself out of the apartment and back down the hallway. The door to my apartment is standing open, and I step into the living room and immediately feel a pair of hands clasp around my upper arm. I launch forward with a sudden rush of terror, whirling around to face my captor.
Again, Peter is standing behind me. He holds his hand out to me imploringly, as if to try to call me.
"The door to your balcony is open a few inches," he says. "Did you leave it like that before you left for the party?"
For a few seconds, I question how he knew I was at a party tonight. Then I remember Lisa had been there, too, but had left shortly before I did. I can only imagine she did so to get home and meet him. I shake my head.
"No," I say. "I never open that door. It was closed and locked when I left. I didn't even notice it was open when I came home. All I noticed with my lingerie."
Peter nods.
"You know who did this, don't you?"
I nod.
"Yes.”
Despite the fear I'm still feeling, there's a slight glimmer of hope. He sounds like he actually cares, like he believes something is happening to me. It's validation, but not from anything I ever wanted to experience. I watch as he pulls his phone out of his back pocket and calls the police. Pulling his mouth away from the receiver, he nods back toward the hallway.
"Go back to Lisa's apartment," he says. "Lock the door and stay there."
"I can't leave you here," I say. "What if he’s still here?"
"He's not here," Peter replies. "I looked in every room."
"What if he comes back?"
"Then you definitely shouldn’t be here. Go back and wait."
I walk back to Lisa’s apartment. Resisting the urge to return to hiding behind the couch, I drop onto the cushions instead, curling up and wrapping my arms around my legs. My face is buried in my knees. I can only hear Lisa's voice as she steps up to me.
"Evan says he's on his way," she says. "I didn't know what to tell him, so I just explained to him what happened."
"That's fine," I say. "Thank you."
I take my phone back, and my hand drops to the cushion beside me. She doesn't ask any more questions. I'm intensely grateful for her silence. I know what's coming. I know as soon as the police arrive, I'll see the same faces, the same looks of disdain, and hear the same questions. They'll come at me over and over, demanding I tell them what I already have. I know they're looking for differences in my story. They're waiting for me to trip up and reveal I'm lying about everything. I don't want to have to tell the story any more than necessary. Right now, I'm just glad to have another person sitting beside me.
It feels like we wait for the police for hours, but I know it's only a few minutes. The lights from the tops of their cars spilling in from the windows and dancing across the ceiling and walls is promising. None of the other times I've called them did they arrive with their lights on. They've always slid into place at an almost leisurely pace with no sense of urgency.
This time is different.
I hear footsteps echoing down the hall and assume it's Peter going downstairs to let the police in. A few seconds later, I hear voices and more footsteps, and Peter comes into the apartment along with one of the officers. I don't recognize him as one I've spoken to before.
"Abigail?" he asks.
I nod. "Yes.”
"My name is Officer Waters. Are you alright?"
I want to tell him I'm fine – the mantra I've repeated countless times to protect myself and not have to deal with what I'm going through. This time, I can't bring myself to do it.
"Not really," I say. "I'm scared."
"I don't blame you. Why don't you tell me what happened?"
********
Two months later…
"Why can't they fucking find him?"
I'm pacing back and forth across the living room, my arms crossed over my stomach as I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches.
"They're trying, Abigail," Evan says. "I'm sure they're doing the best they can."
"What do you m
ean they're doing the best they can? He was there. He had been inside my apartment no more than an hour and a half before they got there. How could he have gotten so far away they can’t find him?"
"Sit down," Evan says. "You need to calm down."
I sit but can’t keep still. Everything is wound up so tight inside me, I feel like I'm about to explode.
"How am I supposed to calm down, Evan? It's been two months. I had to quit the job I absolutely loved. I left my home. Oh, dear lord, there was eggnog in the refrigerator."
I press my hands to the sides of my head and hang over my lap.
"Eggnog?" Evan asks. "You're concerned about eggnog?"
"Not extremely, but it's just another thing added on top of it all." I sit up. "I lost everything. The only thing that gave me any hope at all was when the police said they would actually go after Trevor this time. I can't understand why they haven't found him yet. I can't do anything. I can’t try to find another job. I can't live in my apartment anymore. I can't even go to the grocery store because they haven't been able to find him."
The anger that is built up inside me sinks away and is replaced by a feeling of deep, heavy sadness. The last two months have been some of the worst of my life. They've held nearly as much terror and suffering as when I lived with Trevor because I felt like he was hovering over me at every moment. The night Evan picked me up was the last night I’d been in the city. It felt like the police scoured my apartment for hours, and though I appreciated that they were there, and they were finally taking me seriously, all the adrenaline had left my body, and I was so exhausted I could barely keep my eyes open. By the time they left, everything was in such a blur, I couldn't even process what was happening.
My memories of the next few days are scattered until I heard from the police. They called to let me know they had sufficient evidence to go after Trevor. Finally, it wasn't just me trying to get them to listen and understand me. There were other people to corroborate my story. There was more than just my voice, there was evidence, and the police were willing to listen. I can't really describe that moment as happy. I knew I wouldn't be able to truly feel happiness or relief until they had him in custody.