Follow Me

by Kathleen Barber

  Hadn’t I?

  I stood as still as stone, my heart beating loudly in my ears while I tried to determine whether I should open the door. What if someone was in there?

  Thump.

  Fear shot through my body. Had that been my galloping heart, or had that noise come from within the apartment? Scarcely daring to breathe, I listened for other noises, but heard nothing. It’s just your imagination, I told myself, but I nevertheless wrapped my hand around my key ring, pushing the keys through my fingers to form a spiky weapon.

  Once I was semi-armed, I carefully pushed open the door. My apartment was dark, the faint glow from the streetlight throwing sharp shadows across the small space. So frightened I could taste it, I looked wildly around the room, searching for signs of an intruder.

  The apartment was a disaster—which is to say, it was exactly how I left it. Sagging with relief, I was reaching for the light switch when I heard someone cough.

  Fuck.

  I wanted to turn and run, but my feet felt glued to the laminate, and so that’s where I was standing when a shadowy figure appeared in my bedroom door. A montage of scenes from horror movies flashed through my mind, and I swallowed a scream while tightening my hand around my key ring.

  Then I noticed the man-bun looped atop the intruder’s head, and my terror began to ebb. Ryan. Ryan was a class-A creep, but I doubted he made a habit of murdering his grandmother’s tenants.

  Fear morphing into anger, I turned on the overhead light and demanded, “What are you doing here?”

  Ryan flinched, shading his bloodshot eyes.

  “Answer me,” I snapped, digging in my purse for my phone. “What are you doing in my apartment?”

  He dropped his hand and rolled his head so his neck cracked. “I got confused.”

  “You got confused?”

  “Yeah. I used to live in this unit before you,” he said, looking past me to the open front door. He took a step in that direction, his grungy fingers tapping an irregular rhythm on the bulging pocket of his baggy jeans.

  “What’s in your pocket?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Nothing. Cigarettes.”

  “Show me.”

  “Huh?”

  “Show me what’s in your pocket. Show me these ‘cigarettes.’ ”

  He smirked at me. “No smoking in this building. Grandma’s rules.”

  Now certain that he was concealing something of mine in his pockets, I brandished my phone and said, “Maybe we should call Grandma. Maybe she wants to see these ‘cigarettes,’ too.”

  “Maybe she wants to see your weird-ass blunt,” he countered.

  “My what?”

  “That weird-ass blunt you were smoking in here.” His voice turned mocking. “No drugs allowed.”

  “You mean the smudge stick? How did you …” I trailed off as it dawned on me. “You came into my apartment while I was out and lit the sage, didn’t you? Did you try to smoke it?”

  He scowled deeply, and I had to laugh.

  “You moron. That was sage.”

  “Fuck off,” he grumbled, trying to step past me.

  “Not so fast,” I said, blocking his exit. “What’s in your pocket?”

  He rocked back on his heels and sucked his teeth in consideration. Finally, he said, “What if I give ’em to you?”

  “The ‘cigarettes’?”

  “Yeah. Or, you know. Whatever. What if I give ’em to you? You won’t call her?”

  I held out my hand. “Show me what’s in your pocket, Ryan.”

  “Don’t call her,” he warned, reaching into his pocket and producing a handful of costume jewelry, my bottle of Ambien, and the fifty dollars in five-dollar bills I had on hand for tipping manicurists.

  I snatched my belongings from his grimy hands and struggled not to scream. “Is that all?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If anything else is missing, you know where I’m looking, right?”

  “That’s all,” he sneered, turning his pockets inside out, their contents nothing more than a crumpled pack of Camels and a jumble of keys. “See?”

  I pointed to the keys. “Give me the key.”

  “I don’t have a key.”

  I blinked, amazed by the brazenness of his lie. “You’re a terrible liar. Give me the fucking key and get out of here, or I’m calling the police.”

  “Bitch,” he muttered, unwinding a key from the ring. He threw it onto the floor and then stalked past me and out the front door, pausing only to spit in my entryway.

  * * *

  OUR LANDLORD IN NEW YORK had been a faceless corporation to which we mailed a check every month and otherwise interacted with infrequently. When something broke, we submitted a maintenance request and waited for a contracted handyman to come. Response times varied, and some requests were simply ignored, but dealing with the corporation had been easy. There was a defined method for communication, we knew exactly the level of apathy to expect, and we never had to tell the corporation that its grandson was a shiftless loser who burglarized her tenants’ units.

  I almost waited until morning to make the call—as annoyed as I was, I didn’t relish the idea of breaking the elderly woman’s heart—but in the end, I couldn’t sleep until I called Leanne.

  “Good evening, dear,” she greeted me pleasantly. “Is everything all right?”

  “Not really,” I said. “Your grandson has come into my apartment multiple times without permission.”

  “Oh, he did tell me he gave you a fright the other week,” she said apologetically. “He didn’t mean to scare you. You see, he heard some strange noises coming from your apartment, and he thought he should check on you. A young woman like you, living alone … he just wanted to make sure you weren’t in trouble.”

  I bit my tongue instead of telling Leanne that I, a young woman living alone, was fully capable of protecting myself and didn’t need her twitchy, drug-addled grandson to be my knight in shining armor. Saying it would have felt therapeutic, but it would have only distracted from my point, which was that there was no reason for Ryan to be in my apartment, the other week or that night or any other night.

  “Leanne, there were no strange noises that night. I was sitting alone in my room, not making a sound. I didn’t even have any music on. There was nothing he could have heard that would have made him think I was in danger, nothing that would have made it reasonable for him to come inside without my permission.”

  “Well, maybe he heard something outside. All I know is he rang your doorbell, and you didn’t answer. So he wanted to—”

  “Rob me,” I interrupted. “He wanted to rob me.”

  Leanne let out a small gasp. Her voice hardened as she said, “That’s a serious accusation.”

  “I know,” I said, adding steel to my voice to match hers. “And I’m not making it lightly. Ryan didn’t come into my apartment that night because he heard noises; he came in because he heard no noises. He thought I was out, and thought my not answering the buzzer confirmed it. He thought he could walk in and help himself to whatever he wanted.”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “I’m sorry, but it is. I came home tonight to find Ryan in my apartment, his pockets stuffed with my jewelry, cash, and medicine. He was robbing me, Leanne, and I caught him in the act.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked faintly. “Maybe there was a misunderstanding …”

  “I get this is hard for you,” I said sympathetically. “I do. But I’m your tenant, and you have responsibilities to me. I need the locks changed immediately—all three on the door and the one on the gate.”

  “Oh, I don’t think all that’s necessary. I’ll just talk to Ryan, and—”

  “My lawyer thinks it’s necessary,” I broke in, sending off a mental apology to Cat for dragging her into this without her consent. “Unless you’d rather discuss this with her?”

  “No, no,” she said quickly. “There’s no need to involve lawyers. I’ll have the locks changed first thi
ng tomorrow. Ryan won’t bother you again.”

  * * *

  LEANNE SPOKE too soon.

  Shortly after two in the morning, my buzzer rang. Startled awake, I vowed to ask Leanne to replace that thing when she changed the locks. No doorbell should sound like a crow being electrocuted. As it continued shrieking, I dragged myself out of bed to investigate.

  I pulled open the door and nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw Ryan on the other side of my gate, face twisted and leaning maliciously on the buzzer. Without letting go of it, he growled, “You said you wouldn’t call her, bitch.”

  I shrank back in momentary fear before I gathered myself. I wasn’t afraid of some halfwit who smoked sage, for God’s sake. What could he really do to me while I was behind a locked iron gate, anyway? Annoy me to death?

  “I never promised that,” I shot back. “Now get your filthy hand off my buzzer and get lost.”

  Ryan lunged suddenly, rattling the bars of the gate like a gorilla at the zoo. I recoiled, heart thundering in my chest, and wondered whether I had miscalculated the potential for danger. How strong was that gate really? And what might he do once I was no longer behind it?

  My mind flashed back to a night in college: me, screaming at some incredibly large, exceedingly drunk guy who had grabbed my ass while I waited at the bar, and Nick, holding me back and saying sharply in my ear, “Audrey, goddammit, someday you’re going to get yourself killed.”

  I shivered.

  Still clutching the bars, Ryan pressed his face against the gate so his bloodshot eyes and snarling mouth bulged like some nightmarish gargoyle. He barked once, then smacked chapped lips together in an exaggerated kiss and said, “Sweet dreams, Audrey.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  AUDREY

  I scrutinized the image I was about to post—a close-up of Rosalind’s dreamy doll face as she gazed out the window of her Los Angeles apartment, her golden hair pinned up in miniature curlers—and then, satisfied, uploaded it to the museum’s Instagram feed. The opening of The Life and Death of Rosalind Rose was still a month away, but I had been stoking interest by sharing one carefully cropped image each week. The tactic was working—the posts got tons of engagement.

  I knew people were genuinely excited about the art—as they should be!—but I personally thought the series was doing so well because of the images I had curated. Before I’d posted a single photo, I’d spent hours thinking about how to frame the exhibit. It didn’t lack for shock value—between the inspiration from a real murder and the rumor that Irina Venn had painted the scenes with actual human blood, there was plenty to scandalize the audience—but I’d chosen to focus on Rosalind’s humanity. When I looked at the dioramas, the doll herself was what grabbed me, the rawness of the emotions etched on her tiny face. Rosalind was the star of the show, and I wanted our followers to connect with her just as I had.

  I was reviewing the first wave of comments when a notification popped up that I had a direct message from Irina Venn.

  My heart skipped a beat. Why was the artist sending the museum—sending me—a direct message? Had I made a mistake in my last post? Quickly, I reviewed the photo and the spare caption (Meet Rosalind on August 28), but nothing was out of order. I took a deep breath and opened the message.

  Whoever is running this account is brilliant. Rosalind thanks you from the bottom of her cold, dead heart. Please contact my assistant Lisa Zimmerli at 212-555-1981.

  I had to read the message twice before I fully comprehended its contents, and then I gasped aloud. Brilliant. Irina Venn, a visionary artist whom I had admired for years, thought I was brilliant.

  The word “brilliant” was still echoing through my mind as I called the number Irina had given.

  “Lisa Zimmerli,” Irina’s assistant answered.

  “Lisa, hi,” I said, my voice sounding unnaturally shrill. “My name is Audrey Miller, and I’m the Social Media Manager of the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden. As you know, we’re exhibiting Irina Venn’s The Life and Death of Rosalind Rose. I just received a direct message from Irina on Instagram asking me to contact you.”

  “Of course, yes. Thanks for calling. Irina has been obsessed with your Instagram posts. She thinks you really get Rosalind.”

  “I’m so glad to know she’s pleased,” I said, striving to keep my voice professional while every cell of my body shrieked with triumph.

  “Very pleased. In fact, Irina has decided to create a video especially for your institution. In it, she’ll discuss her inspiration and process for creating the pieces. She says you’re free to use it however you wish, but she suggests as a complement to the exhibit.”

  I had to swallow my scream of victory. Irina Venn was creating something special for our museum? More to the point, she was creating something because she liked my social media coverage? That promotion was as good as mine.

  I promised to connect Lisa with the appropriate person on our end and then hung up, still smiling so hard my face hurt. I spun around, pumping my fist in the air in celebration, and jumped when I found Lawrence standing directly behind me.

  “Lawrence! I didn’t know you were there.”

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said. He adjusted his round glasses and gave me a quizzical look. “You look awfully pleased with yourself.”

  “That’s because I just got off the phone with Irina Venn’s assistant, and Irina likes what I’m doing with Rosalind on Instagram so much that she’s creating a special video for us to exhibit alongside the dioramas!”

  “Wow,” Lawrence said, widening his eyes. “That’s incredible.”

  “I know!” I exclaimed, deliriously happy, and threw my arms around him.

  If he was put off by my lack of professionalism, he didn’t show it. Instead, he squeezed me back and said, “Congratulations, Audrey.”

  * * *

  I SAW THE BRIGHT ORANGE from half a block away. I squinted, confused, as I tried to make sense of the color attached to my gate. Were those … flowers? I had been certain I would come home from a late spin class to find Ryan had broken through the new locks and trashed my apartment, but instead … there were flowers? As I drew nearer, I was able to confirm that yes, there were in fact flowers—a gorgeous bouquet, bursting with orange roses, brightly colored zinnias, and sprigs of wildflowers—fastened to my front gate.

  Carefully, I untied the bouquet and turned it over in my hands, looking for a card. Nothing. I inspected the flowers again, more cautiously this time, searching for evidence that Ryan had booby-trapped them. I stopped short, laughing at myself. What a ridiculous notion. Ryan was the sort of brainiac who thought ringing my doorbell at two in the morning was cutting revenge; he wasn’t clever enough to lure me in with an expensive bouquet of flowers and somehow sabotage them.

  Who could have sent them? Nick? In college, he’d had some sort of pathological aversion to flowers, but maybe he’d grown to appreciate their charms. Maybe Cat? I’d told her about the incident with Ryan; maybe she had sent them to cheer me up? But no—Cat’s answer had been that I should move in with her; it wasn’t sending flowers. Besides, Cat surely would have mentioned it.

  As I fingered the orange blossoms, I suddenly remembered a conversation I’d had with Lawrence the other day. I had been walking by his desk when he stopped me and pointed at his computer screen, where a collared shirt from J.Crew was on display.

  “Audrey, you have great style. Help me out. Should I get this shirt in blue or in orange?”

  “Orange, definitely,” I’d told him. “It’s more distinctive. And it’s my favorite color.”

  He had smiled and clicked, adding the shirt to his shopping cart. “Done.”

  Lawrence knew how much I loved the color orange, and he knew about the win with Irina Venn. Besides, with his on-trend glasses, neatly buffed fingernails, and penchant for bow ties, Lawrence seemed like the kind of man who could pick out a killer bouquet. Could he have sent these?

  It doesn’t matter, I thought
, pressing my face into the bouquet and inhaling the floral scent as I carried it inside my apartment. Never look a gift bouquet in the mouth.

  * * *

  I AWOKE WITH A START, uncertain what had roused me. As I blinked my eyes open in the dark, I strained my ears, listening for something amiss. I heard nothing other than the bright sound of silence. At first, I had found DC’s nighttime quiet unnerving—New York, after all, was never anything less than noisy—but now I relished it.

  Convinced I had awoken over nothing, I closed my eyes and rolled over, nestling beneath the soft new sheets I’d received from a start-up linen company in exchange for a review that I had yet to write. Comfortable even when your sleep isn’t, I drafted in my head. No, that’s terrible. It should be something more like—

  Scratch.

  My eyes flew open. What the hell was that? I was almost certain it had been a footfall in the alley, and I lay still as a corpse, listening closely. I heard nothing—which, rather than reassuring me, made my skin prickle. Someone was out there and they weren’t moving through the alley. No, they had stopped right outside my window. The window that overlooked my bed.

  With my pulse thundering in my ears, I carefully turned to face the window, pretending I was flipping in my sleep. I opened my eyes as much as I dared and peered up at the glass. I’d covered it with curtains in a cheerful yellow-and-cream chevron pattern, and in the space where they gapped, I saw the outline of something dark. I caught my breath. A shoe. Jesus Christ.

  There was no reason for someone to be in that alley. It wasn’t a through street—just a narrow gap between two buildings. There was a gate at each end, ostensibly to keep people from using it as a footpath, but the gates were rarely latched and I’d seen plenty of people using it to cut through the block. That’s all that it is, I told myself. Someone trying to take a shortcut.

  I remained perfectly still, watching the shoe, waiting for it and its owner to move on.

  They didn’t.

  Goddammit.