Listed: Volume I

by Adams, Noelle

  She prayed the elevator would descend quickly, but it stopped two floors lower and three more people got on.

  Now Paul was on the opposite side of the elevator, and the cologne-soaked man had moved even closer to her by necessity, trapping her in the back corner of the elevator, swallowed up in the sickening scent.

  Her head pounded blindingly and her stomach rolled. She clung to the rail and tried to breathe, but breathing just made the smell worse.

  The elevator stopped again. Emily had to turn her head to face the wall, desperately trying not to be sick.

  She wasn’t looking at the door when the elevator stopped, and she was startled when she heard Paul’s voice say, “Excuse me. My wife needs to get out. Emily?”

  The people on the elevator looked surprised, since they hadn’t thought she and Paul were together. But they made room for Emily, who gratefully stumbled out of the elevator onto the twelfth floor.

  Paul must have pushed the button for this floor to get them off the elevator as soon as possible.

  Emily swayed on her feet dangerously, raggedly sucking in air.

  Paul put a supportive arm around her. It was purely functional—not intimate or affectionate—but Emily appreciated it. She clung to his suit jacket and leaned her head against his shoulder, shaking with suppressed sobs. Paul smelled familiar to her now, a light scent that was clean, masculine, and pleasant. She didn’t think it was strong enough for cologne. It might have just been the combination of his laundered clothes and his soap.

  “What’s wrong with me?” she demanded, when she’d managed to pull it together. “It can’t be the virus. My aunt never had anything but fevers.”

  “It might not be the virus,” he said quietly. “It may just be a headache—from stress or from dehydration after all the traveling we’ve done or from who knows what. If a headache is bad enough, it can knock you out.”

  She took a shuddering breath, strangely comforted by his mild words. Maybe it was just a headache. Maybe it wasn’t really a sign that her death was coming sooner than it was supposed to.

  “Anyway,” Paul said, reaching over to push the down button to the elevator, “We need to get you home.”

  Because she hadn’t wanted to be where people would always be hovering and waiting for her to die, they were staying at an apartment that Paul’s mother had owned in a luxury building in Center City, instead of her big house in the neighborhood. It wasn’t really Emily’s home.

  But it was as close to one as she had anymore.

  * * *

  When they got back to the apartment, Emily went to her room, changed into a t-shirt and sweats, and crawled into bed.

  She’d just closed her eyes when she heard a tap on the door and Paul came in. He’d taken off his suit jacket and tie and had opened the top buttons of his white dress shirt. He carried a prescription pill bottle and a bottle of sparkling water.

  “What’s that?” Emily asked, hating how her voice cracked, making her sound as weak as she felt.

  “I called Dr. Franklin earlier, before we left the law office, and he sent over a prescription.” He read the label and dumped out one large white pill. “It’s a painkiller for your headache.”

  Dr. Franklin had been her primary physician for the last month. While Emily had never known a doctor who would immediately send over medication at a patient’s call, she assumed the Pauls of the world got different treatment than the Emilys of the world. She wasn’t about to turn down anything that might make her head feel better.

  She accepted the pill and swallowed it with the water he’d handed her. Then she relaxed back against her pillow and closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she mumbled, when she could feel him still standing and looking at her.

  “Try to get some sleep,” he said, before leaving the room and closing the door quietly behind him.

  The medication must have been some sort of narcotic because in only a few minutes the pain started to fade and her head began to swim. Every time she moved she felt a little dizzy, but she figured out that, if she lay perfectly still on her back and closed her eyes, she wouldn’t have those whirling feelings.

  So she lay motionless, and it wasn’t long until she fell asleep.

  * * *

  She woke up groggy and disoriented.

  She looked over at the clock and stared at the digital numbers that said 6:42. She blinked a few times, thinking she must have woken up a little earlier than normal that morning. She tried to remember what day it was but couldn’t figure it out.

  Then she wondered why she was wearing a t-shirt and sweats instead of her pajamas or nightgown. Then she wondered why there was a green bottle of sparkling water on her nightstand.

  She sat up, feeling strangely fuzzy. She was conscious of something good though. Something really good.

  She finally figured out her head wasn’t hurting anymore, and the absence of the throbbing pain was a relief so palpable she felt almost giddy.

  She took a sip of the water and was vaguely surprised when it was still fairly cool. She stared at the clock, trying to figure out what the numbers meant.

  Then she was finally hit with the revelation. It was six in the evening, not the morning. She’d just woken up from what had been a very long nap—almost four hours long.

  She stumbled to her feet and stood for a minute to get her balance. The apartment was perfectly silent. Eerily so. It felt like she’d been abandoned by the entire world.

  She walked down the hall barefoot, looking in rooms, and finally saw that the door to Paul’s office was only halfway closed.

  She peeked in and saw that he was working at his computer, focused intently on whatever he was typing.

  He was now the Assistant Vice President of Management at his mother’s company—a corporate position created just for him—but evidently he was able to do a lot of work from home, since he’d spent the last two evenings working. From the brief glimpses she’d had of the work on his desk, it looked deadly dull to her, but he seemed absolutely committed to completing it all with as much care and efficiency as he could muster.

  A far cry from partying all night like he used to.

  Despite his intent focus, it didn’t take long for Paul to notice her presence in his doorway.

  He smiled when he saw her, but it was that mild smile she hated, the one that reminded her she was dying. “How’s your headache?”

  “It’s better. It’s totally gone.”

  “Good.” He sat and looked at her for a minute. Then asked, “Did you need anything?”

  She suddenly realized she was interrupting his work. She’d come to find him instinctively, since she’d felt lonely and disoriented in the apartment by herself. She was perfectly capable of amusing herself, however, and she definitely didn’t want to be a nuisance. “No, I’m fine. Is it all right if I find something to eat in the kitchen? I’m kind of hungry now.”

  “Sure,” Paul said, looking with a surprised expression at his wrist. “Make yourself at home.”

  She murmured thanks and turned to leave when she realized he’d gotten up. “I can make do myself,” she told him, “You don’t have to come with me.”

  “I need to find something for dinner too, unless you’d rather be alone.”

  “No.” She smiled in pleased surprise, “I don’t need to be alone.”

  The truth was she was glad of his company, even for something as mundane as scouring the kitchen for something to eat. She was used to being surrounded by people she knew—her friends in the neighborhood, her classmates, her aunt.

  All of the people around her now were strangers except for Paul. She could call Chris or her other friends if she wanted, but it wasn’t the same. Their world seemed so far away from hers now, and being around them hurt, reminded her of her old life, the one that was coming to an early end.

  If she wanted real company, Paul was her only option. While it would be wrong to expect him to spend all of his time keeping her company, she was kind of glad he’d decide
d to come eat with her.

  The kitchen in the apartment wasn’t really very large, but it was more luxurious than any kitchen Emily had ever been in before. She felt like a plebian in her sloppy t-shirt with no bra as she opened the top-of-the-line, stainless-steel refrigerator.

  It was full, and everything was neatly organized on the shelves and trays.

  “Do you have someone who cooks for you?” she asked, looking back at Paul curiously.

  He had opened a cute little cubby-hole in the cabinets and pulled out a fresh loaf of bread. “I have Ruth, who comes in and cleans, and she usually leaves me things to eat that I can just warm up.”

  He came to join her, and together they investigated the contents of the refrigerator.

  Eventually they decided on homemade chicken and brown rice soup that just needed to be warmed up and sandwiches made from an assortment of gourmet sliced meats and cheeses they discovered in the deli drawer.

  They didn’t chat much as they prepared their meal and ate it on the stools at the kitchen bar, but Emily didn’t mind. The quiet didn’t feel awkward. They spoke when they had something to say, but they didn’t feel compelled to talk for the sake of talking. It felt almost companionable.

  She was finishing up her soup when Paul asked, “So what’s next on your list? After we finish the deposition tomorrow, we’ll have the rest of the weekend to do something, if you’d like.”

  “Yeah, I was thinking about that. There are a few things on the list that I can do here in Philadelphia, so I thought I could just go out on my own tomorrow afternoon and Sunday and get them crossed off. There’s no reason you have to do everything with me.”

  Paul frowned. “I don’t mind. What were you thinking of doing?”

  “Just...” She shook her head, foolishly embarrassed by a couple of items on the list. “It doesn’t really matter. I’m happy to do them on my own. That way you can catch up on work or do something fun yourself.”

  “I told you I don’t mind going with you. I don’t like the idea of your running around the city on your own.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Why shouldn’t I? I’ve been going wherever I want on my own since I was thirteen.”

  “I know that,” he said, his eyes narrowing with what looked like disapproval. “But it’s not safe for you right now. If you don’t want me around, then I can send a couple of bodyguards with you.”

  “No,” she objected, almost choking on her last bite of sandwich. “I want to get some sort of satisfaction out of doing my list. I don’t want to rush through it with a bunch of hulking men glaring at me. I’m going by myself.”

  Paul was already finished with his meal, but he put his bottle of water down and let out a slow breath, as if he were restraining his impulse to be angry. “It’s not safe, Emily. My father could still try to kill you, and I’m not going to put you in danger.”

  “It’s not your choice to make!” She tried to keep her voice as level as his, but she couldn’t quite manage it. “Tomorrow, I’ll have finished the deposition so it won’t matter if I get killed.” When he made a strangled sound in response, she hurried on, “I just mean it won’t affect the case. I’ll have fulfilled my side of our agreement, so you can’t keep me locked away under guard.”

  “I don’t want to keep you locked away.” His voice sounded a little rough, and she realized he’d gotten angry after all. It was almost a relief—that he was treating her like a real person. “But we can at least take basic precautions. You never minded my protection before.”

  She scowled. “I never thought I needed it, but I was all right with it when I thought I had a long life waiting for me, or when I knew I still needed to testify. Those things aren't true anymore. I’m trying to get through my list, and I need a little freedom to do it.”

  “You can do your list. I’m not stopping you. In fact, I’m trying to help you.”

  “You’re trying to control me.” Her voice had gotten louder and shriller, and resentment buzzed hotly in her ears.

  “Emily, you’re being ridiculous.” His face and shoulders were tense with whatever emotion he was suppressing. “I don’t want to control you. I want to keep you safe. I promised that I would protect you. Have I ever given you cause to think I’ll go back on my word?”

  He hadn’t. Not once had Paul not kept his word to her. But that didn’t make his presumption and arrogance any more palatable now.

  “I don’t want to be protected. I want to be treated like a normal person.”

  “For God’s sake, Emily,” Paul growled, clearly at the end of his patience. “What the hell do you—” He bit off his words and turned away from her. Took a few slow breaths.

  When he turned back toward her, she knew—she knew—he’d remembered she was dying.

  And apparently you didn't yell at a dying girl.

  “Emily,” he said gently, “We can go through the items on your list together this weekend, with adequate security precautions, or you can do them yourself, escorted by a bodyguard. Those are your options. You agreed that I would protect you. This is the only way I can do so, unless you want out completely.”

  Before she could do more than sputter a few times in outrage, he’d gotten up and walked out of the kitchen.

  She wanted to scream. She wanted to punch something. She wanted to claw lines down Paul’s stubborn, infuriating face.

  She looked down at her left hand and suddenly remembered she was married to the bastard.

  Despite her automatic reaction, she didn’t chase after him and throw a fit, since she knew it would be immature and counter-productive. Instead, she put up the food and dishes, more from habit than from any concern that it wouldn’t be taken care of.

  Then she walked back to her room, noticing that Paul’s office door was closed tightly.

  She glared at it as she passed, but she didn’t try to enter.

  Instead, she grabbed her purse from her room and simply made her way to the front door of the apartment.

  In the hall, she was greeted by a big man in a suit. A bodyguard. She thought she remembered Paul had called him Tim.

  “I’m just running out for a few minutes,” she said with a smile.

  He gave her a friendly enough look, but he put his hand out. “Just a minute, Mrs. Marino.”

  She stood in outraged shock as he made a call and quietly asked if it was all right that she was leaving without anyone escorting her.

  The person on the other end—undoubtedly Paul—must have said no.

  “I’m sorry, miss…missus,” Tim said, looking awkward in the face of her visible indignation. “I can call someone to go with you if you want. But otherwise…”

  He trailed off, and Emily was hard pressed not to scream and hit something.

  This wasn’t happening. She wasn’t trapped in this damned penthouse apartment.

  She knew Paul wouldn’t genuinely trap her here. She could leave any time she wanted. She could leave the marriage, his protection, their agreement.

  She didn’t want to leave all that, though. She just wanted to go out for a while by herself.

  It wasn’t Tim’s fault, so she managed not to snarl at him. She just turned around and went back inside.

  She was stewing. Shaking with resentment.

  As she passed the office door, it opened, and Paul stuck his head out. “Sorry,” he said, as if his behavior was somehow normal. “Just let me know if you want to go do something, and we can get someone to go with you so it’s safe.”

  Instead of expressing her rising fury, she was suddenly hit with a brainstorm. “Am I at least allowed to go for a swim?” She made sure to sound unhappy, almost pouty, since he’d suspect something if she seemed all right with this situation.

  His eyebrows drew together, making those two little lines on his forehead. “Of course. There’s the plunge pool on the terrace, if you don’t think it’s too cool—”

  “I wanted to do laps. Isn’t there a bigger pool?”

  “Oh, yeah, downstairs.
Sure you can go. Do you mind if someone goes with you?”

  She made a face and mumbled, “Fine.”

  Evidently, her performance was convincing. He didn’t seem remotely suspicious as she left him and headed to her room.

  There, she sat down on her bed, forcing down her resentment so she could think clearly. She pulled out her list from the drawer next to her bed and looked down at it.

  For years, Emily had done what she’d liked, gone where she wanted, made things happen at her own devising. And nothing—not locked doors, not fear, not the authority of someone else—had kept her out if she'd wanted in.

  There was one thing on her list that she could do tonight, alone, not far from the city.

  Paul wouldn’t be happy, but he wasn’t in control of her.

  And she knew how she would get out of the building.

  .* * *

  It ended up being quite simple.

  Had Emily been trying to get into the apartment, she had to admit she wouldn’t have been able to do it. But she wanted to get out, and she’d always been good at getting things done.

  She put on the one swimsuit she had with her—a red tankini—and then she pulled a short, red knit dress over it for a cover-up and slid on a pair of sandals.

  She thought about bringing a bag with a change of clothes and some other supplies that could come in handy, but the bodyguard might think it was strange if she’d carried a bag. So she just put her phone, some cash, and her list in a pocket of her dress, found a big towel in the linen closet, and walked casually out the front door of the apartment.

  Tim was still in the hall when she emerged.

  “Paul said it was okay for me to go down to the pool to do laps,” she said with a smile, when he immediately straightened up at her presence.

  “Of course, Mrs. Marino,” Tim said. “He already let me know you were going. Mark is waiting downstairs. Just take the elevator down to the pool level.”

  “Thanks.”

  She gave him a bright smile and felt a little guilty when he smiled back, looking like he appreciated her friendliness.