by Martha Woods
In the kitchen, I can feel eyes on me even though I have turned every light on in the apartment and have been looking over my shoulder at my innocent entertainment center repeatedly. I jump when the kettle shrieks, signaling that the water has boiled. My hands are even shaking a little as I pour the steaming water into my mug and watch the teabag stain it a murky greenish-brown. What is wrong with me?
I take my tea back to my bed. Bella hops up and settles in beside me, and I’m grateful for her warmth, and the security it brings. She’s not much of a guard dog – far too friendly and affectionate, even towards strangers. But even so, her presence is reassuring. And normal. So blissfully normal. I switch on the TV and look for a sitcom. Maybe a good laugh track and a ridiculously large New York City apartment will take my mind off of things. I watch for a minute, sipping my tea, but I feel an increasing sensation that something isn’t right.
I tell myself I’m being paranoid. After a dream like that, who could blame me? But it is more than that. It is something tangible, but something I can’t place. My career has been built around noticing details, focusing on the minute discrepancies that help solve a case. I know when something is out of place. I can feel it. And I feel it now.
I pull my robe tighter around my shoulders as a chill breeze caresses the exposed skin there. A chill breeze? I sit up straighter, my head flying to the right. That’s it. The door to my balcony is open, just a crack.
I know I didn’t leave it that way. It was closed when I went into the living room to watch the movie earlier that night. It feels like months ago. But I know it was closed. I double checked it.
And I didn’t open it when I came back in. So how is it open? Had someone been in here? Someone, or something? I push that thought away quickly. It is neither helpful nor rational.
I gently place my cup on the bedside table. I walked through the whole apartment between taking my shower and venturing into the kitchen to make the tea, so I know no one is here now, but that knowledge does little to make me feel better. Someone had been in here. They must have been.
Nothing looks out of place, though. Did I actually double check the door? Maybe I left it unlocked and it blew open? I don’t know. One thought keeps trying to surface and I keep ignoring it. But it is there. Suddenly, in blazing red letters seared into my brain, it is there. The vampire had been here. I laugh at the ridiculousness of my thought. The laughter sounds strained to my ears, a little hysterical. It does nothing to calm me. Another laugh escapes me, this one sounding a little more normal, a little more like me, as a new thought pops in. It can’t have been a vampire. You have to invite them in. Right? I’ve watched enough vampire movies to know that much.
I’ve watched enough vampire movies to know a lot about them, now that I think of it. Or at least, enough to know about the fictional versions. I like monster flicks. They are, in some ways, the most realistic genre. No over the top romance or melodrama, just creatures hurting people. If you think of the monsters as metaphors for a certain type of people, it’s about as accurate to the real world as Hollywood gets. Maybe the actual vampires are accurate, too. Some of their movie characteristics must be based on truth, I reason. If vampires are real, which I am now fairly convinced they are, the familiar archetypes probably come from someone’s real life experiences – back when people didn’t get called crazy for stuff like this. That time existed, didn’t it?
I jump as my cell phone starts to ring. Who would be calling me at 4 a.m.? Usually, I would assume it was work, but that seems unlikely considering I am on leave.
I pick it up and look at the screen. There is a number I don’t recognize. I feel a cold shiver of fear run through me. Annoyed at myself, I press accept. It’s just a phone call. Even if it was the vampire, it’s not as if he could suck my blood through the phone. Besides, magically knowing people’s unlisted cell phone numbers isn’t usually considered to be one of a vampire’s supernatural abilities. Why am I suddenly scared of my own damn shadow?
“Amy McCartney,” I say.
“Hello, Amy,” says a man’s voice. I recognize the voice from somewhere, but I can’t immediately place it.
“Who is this?” I snap. I don’t mean to, but it is the middle of the night, after all. I have every right to. Plus, I’ve had a big night, what with my whole world view being turned on its head by the existence of vampires of all things, the whole being placed on leave thing, and a mysteriously and unsettlingly open balcony door.
“It’s Damon.”
Damon? I don’t think I know anyone named Damon. But the voice still sounds familiar. And, if I’m being honest, it sends a pleasant little flutter through my stomach as well. I can feel myself beginning to blush, which usually only happens when there’s a ridiculously attractive guy involved…then it hits me. Damon from the crime scene. I mentally focus. On the case, not on his amazing jawline. Nope, definitely not focusing on that jawline. Or those eyes.
“Did you remember something?” Good, Amy. Very professional. And totally coherent! I give myself a mental pat on the back. Maybe I’m getting past that whole prolonged bumbling teenager phase.
“No. I just wanted to make sure you were ok,” Damon says.
“Why wouldn’t I be ok?” I ask, genuinely curious. I should probably feel irritated, cautious. Strange men I meet at crime scenes calling in the middle of the night to check up on me is not normal.
I can almost hear him shrug. “No reason,” he says.
I picture him, sitting in bed, talking on his cell phone, chatting with me as if we are old friends, or…something more. Okay, so maybe not quite over the bumbling teenager phase. Seriously, what is the matter with me? I’m not even in the same room as this guy and I already feel all goofy. And we only met once. At a murder scene. I have a feeling I’m going to have to keep reminding myself of that fact. Still, calling me at this time seems odd if he doesn’t want to talk about the case. Maybe he figured I was still awake, given how late it was when we met at the crime scene. Maybe he was thinking of me. Maybe he found me attractive.
I push the thought away. I need to get information out of this man. I have a feeling that somehow, he could be the answer to all of this, but now that I have pictured him in bed, I start imagining him naked, a good natured smirk on his face as he speaks to me. I try to ignore my mind’s movie, but it’s hard to shake. I may not believe in love, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy an attractive man’s company. And I remember vividly how attractive Damon is.
“It’s very late for a social call,” I say, trying to be nonchalant.
“I’m a night owl,” he says. As if that makes it ok.
“Yeah? Well, I’m a cat. I eat owls for breakfast,” I blurt out. I cringe. Yup. Definitely not over my phase. My talent for awkwardness is so strong, even over the phone, that I’m starting to think it’s probably record breaking.
Damon’s throaty laugh comes across the line. It sounds so close I almost think I should be able to feel his breath on my cheek.
“Cats don’t eat owls. But still, I look forward to you eating me for breakfast.”
He hangs up.
Was he flirting with me or just toying with me? Was he interested in me, or was he a serial killer interested in wearing my skin? Maybe he’s the killer, the one we’ve been looking for. I doubt it. He wouldn’t be so blatant if that was the case. But there’s still something about him I can’t puzzle out. I have no idea. I always feel a bit lost, a bit uneasy around hot men, but Damon is something else.
I get out of bed and lock the balcony door, then climb back under my covers, turning the TV and lamp off. I close my eyes. My mind is filled with images of Damon. I don’t try to push them away this time.
The next morning, I wake up feeling far from rested. The nightmare from the night before is still nagging me, as is the mysteriously open balcony door. I’m also still trying to make sense of my instincts about Damon, and of the whole vampire thing.
All in all, I have a lo
t on my mind.
I throw on some workout clothes, harness Bella, and head out for a run. Even though I barely slept the night before, and even though my feet are dragging a little bit as I head down to the lobby of my building, I feel like a run is exactly what I need right now. I’m one of those people whose mind is always running a mile a minute, whether it’s making lists or planning dinner or piecing together evidence even when I’m out of the office, there’s always something going on up in my brain. It just doesn’t shut up. That can be a plus at work, because it allows me to see lots of different possibilities in a short period of time, and it’s great for enabling multitasking. But in the rest of my life, it basically just gives me a headache.
When I get really determined about something, though, my brain shuts off of its own accord. Suddenly, there is nothing but my goal: sharp and clear in my mind’s eye, unhindered. That’s how I got when I was learning to drive, or any time I took an exam. And it’s how I get when I run.
So when things get too loud inside my head, I know exactly what to do.
Bella and I jog along, completely in sync, the only sounds my shoes and her claws against the pavement, her collar jingling, and the both of us panting. We’re pretty fast, passing other joggers, even tall men, with ease. It is a point of pride for me. I may not be very tall or particularly strong, but I’m in good shape, and I’ll admit that I have a competitive streak. I like to win, especially against men. I think that mindset comes with being a woman in my line of work. The guys I work with aren’t sexist or anything, but the job itself can illicit it. It often comes across as male officers being overprotective of me.
Rick can get away with that, but I pity anyone else who tries it. Even though they’re not around to see me and Bella running like pros, I still get a sense of satisfaction and empowerment from it.
Today, we run until I’m drenched in sweat. Bella looks like she could go another several miles, but she’s got twice as many legs as I do.
She whines as we enter my apartment building.
“Cut me some slack,” I tell her as we head to the elevators. “I know you wish you’d been adopted by an Olympic runner or something, but at least I share my food with you.”
She wags her tail.
“Plus, I’m an awesome cuddler.”
After I’ve showered and grabbed a bite to eat, I settle down at my computer. I log on to Netflix and key in the search word “vampire.” I may not be able to work, but at least I can do something productive. Watching vampire movies and television shows counts, I rationalize to myself. It’s research. I’ll just steer clear of the ones that intersect with the teen romance category.
Chapter 3
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I pull my front door closed and make triple sure I’ve locked it. It’s been a couple days since I found my balcony door open, and nothing suspicious has happened since. I haven’t heard anything new about the case, but I didn’t expect to. Rick is extraordinarily by the book. He’d never share details about an ongoing investigation with me while I’m on leave. Especially since he put me there. I’m still not speaking to him.
I’ve been spending most of my time alternating between taking Bella on runs and watching vampire flicks. We are getting very in shape, and I’m getting much better informed. I’ve already marathoned the entire first season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (in my defense, it’s a pretty short season), and I have made a list of vampire characteristics, complete with check marks to denote how many different pieces of media those traits show up in. Sunlight fatal: 3 checks. Sleep in coffins: 1 check. Require invitation to private property: 2 checks. No garlic: 1 check. Drink blood: all the checks.
It’s a start, and my Netflix queue is full.
I head for the elevator. As I wait impatiently for it to arrive, watching the numbers grow larger and larger on the screen above the doors, I suddenly laugh out loud. As if anyone could have gotten into my apartment through the balcony door. I live in a high rise apartment complex, for god’s sake. I’ve been spending so much of my mental energy envisioning horror film-esque scenarios of a stalker living in my walls or a slasher waiting to stab me through my shower curtain, I didn’t even stop to think about how improbable the whole thing was. The thought that someone could have gotten all the way up to my balcony is absurd. It’s not as if there’s someone out there suctioning themselves to the face of my building or firing grappling hooks and scaling the walls. It’s a good thing I held off on buying that heavy duty lock.
It still could have been—
No. I cut that thought off. In the light of day, all thoughts of vampires sneaking into my house and biting women in alleyways are ridiculous. I may be making lists about them, but I’m not going to start imagining them turning into bats and flying up to my bedroom. Besides, I’m still playing a mental tug-of-war with myself about the whole prospect of vampires. The list is just…my way of covering all my bases. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.
The elevator arrives. I can even sympathize with Rick. I left him no choice but to put me on leave. And maybe it’s for the best. I have been stressed out lately. And I couldn’t have seen what I thought I saw. It must have been like the woman said. She fell and hit her head. And the man? Well, maybe he wasn’t that into her, so he left.
I need to get my head on straight. I need to throw away that ridiculous list, put some good old fashioned action flicks in my Netflix queue, and join a kickboxing class or something. Maybe I need to get my vision checked. Could I be going night blind? That’s a thing, right? Maybe it’s from all the hours I spend staring at computer and television screens. Even if I didn’t see what I thought I saw, that doesn’t make me crazy. Just slightly blind. That’s a much better prospect. I could look good in glasses.
I step out of the elevator and cross the lobby, then set off to walk to the coffee shop to meet Cara. I haven’t seen her in far too long. She works normal person hours, so we usually miss each other. I’m looking forward to catching up with her, hearing about her job, her love life – even if it is usually a lot of drama. In fact, I could use a little run of the mill guy drama right about now. And I’m hoping that talking through the past few days with her will give me some perspective as well. She’s hopeless in the guy department, but her advice in other areas is always sound. Maybe her take on all of this will be of help. Besides, the fresh air will do me some good. I may or may not have been holed up in my apartment since my run yesterday morning, except for a quick trip out with Bella for her evening potty break.
But I haven’t taken more than two or three steps out of the building when I collide with a man as he turns the corner.
“I’m sorry,” I say automatically, taking a step back.
“I’m not,” he replies. I know that voice well now. Damon. What is he doing here?
“Are you stalking me or something?” I blurt out, feeling defensive. I immediately kick myself mentally. I may be on edge, but that’s no reason to be rude to the poor guy. He has kind of a puppy dog look about him and for a second a hurt look crosses his face. Why do I always do that? Why can’t I engage my brain before my mouth?
This is why I’m so painfully single. If I’m not embarrassing myself in front of a guy, I’m making him feel like crap. It’s not a great way to start a relationship, and even though I’m not looking for anything like the farfetched concept of true love, I wouldn’t be averse to having a boyfriend, at least for a while. It would get Cara off my back. And companionship is nice. I have needs, after all. Plus, I like to cuddle. Damon looks very cuddle-able. And I’ve just accused him of being a stalker. Brilliant work, Amy. As usual.
Damon smiles his charming smile and takes my comment in stride. “That’s a nice thought, isn’t it? But no, sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve just moved in here.” I have to say, I’m impressed. Anyone who can hold their own with my special brand of conversation is someone who has my attention. And Damon would have it anyway, with that face.
Wait. Did he just say –? “Why would you move into a shitty place like …” I trail off. Great, now I’m insulting his taste, and probably his income too. Not to mention my own. I don’t mind living in a cruddy building that’s seen much better days. But for some people, their home is a point of pride. I can understand that.
Damon smiles. “Are we friends now?” he jokingly asks. “Here I was thinking you just a cop and I was just a potential witness.”
I feel my face redden from the roots of my hair all the way down to my chin. It doesn’t stop there. It covers my neck and chest. I think it might never end. Another perk of my awkwardness, it’s painfully obvious even when I keep my mouth shut. I clear my throat.
“Joking,” I manage to squeeze out.
“Sure,” Damon says. “Me too. I was stalking you, actually.”
I don’t have a response for that. I’ve exhausted my banter abilities for the time being, which, I know, isn’t saying much. They were minimal to begin with. But it’s more than that. There’s something about the way he says that about stalking me that makes me almost believe it. What’s even more unsettling, though, is that the prospect of him stalking me doesn’t make me afraid at all. I know that sounds pretty twisted, but I have this instinct about him that tells me I should trust him. That I need to trust him. And although he doesn’t scare me, these intense thoughts do. I feel my stomach drop and suddenly wish I were literally anywhere but here. A Siberian prison, for example, seems nice right about now.
So, I do what any sane, reasonable girl would do. I blurt, “Well, have a good day,” in a voice so high pitched perhaps only dogs can hear it, and literally bolt away from him.
His low laughter follows me. His laugh is consistently good natured. I don’t feel like he’s laughing at me as such, but I do feel like he plays on my obvious discomfort. I want to take offense at that, and at the joke about stalking, which doesn’t quite sit right given the week I’m having, but I can’t seem to make the indignation stick. Not when he’s so playful and so damn attractive.