Follow Me

by Kathleen Barber

  Cat said I could stay in her guest room as long as I wanted, but there was an unfamiliar edge to her voice. If I didn’t know better, I might think Cat was annoyed with me. I was sure, though, that she was just stressed about work. Still, staying with Cat while she was in that kind of mood seemed unappealing, and so I declined her invitation and called Nick instead. Nick cut an imposing figure; he could intimidate my unwelcome visitor, should he return, much more successfully than I could, with or without expensive footwear in hand.

  * * *

  HAVING NICK OVER eased my paranoia, but I hated needing him. The damsel in distress was my least favorite trope, and I disliked embodying it. I tried to keep Nick on the back burner and to find other, healthier ways to distract myself from worries about the alley: I voraciously sampled exercise classes, testing a new Reformer or spin class every day; I spent hours on my Instagram presence, editing photos, crafting Stories, and working on the preset filter collection I hoped to soon launch; and I even FaceTimed my sister, Maggie, something I usually avoided because her kids seized her phone and started spinning it around in their chubby hands, leaving me dizzy.

  And I threw myself into my job. Two months in, I still felt like I was learning the ropes, although I grew more confident every day. After all, who had so impressed Irina Venn that she’d created a special video for the museum? This girl. I knew the next several weeks would be demanding: The Life and Death of Rosalind Rose was opening later that month, and there was an exclusive member preview before that. Just that afternoon, I had been working on a posting schedule when Ayala had hovered over my shoulder, her breath sharp with the scent of bitter coffee, and had reminded me how important it was for the Rosalind exhibit to succeed. I was determined to not let her down—and to snag the promotion she was dangling.

  But between my uneasiness in my apartment and the pressure with work, I began to feel like I was dragging. I was getting a late-afternoon coffee—my third of the day—in the Hirshhorn’s sleek lobby with my colleague Lena, a Margot Tenenbaum clone who worked in public engagement, when she pointed out the dark circles under my eyes.

  “I would bite someone’s head off if they told me I looked tired,” she said. “And you’re well within your rights to do so to me. But, honestly, Audrey, are you okay?”

  “I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” I confessed. “I think the Rosalind exhibit is getting to me. And, you know, that thing with the guy outside my window didn’t help matters.”

  “What?” she asked, kohl-rimmed eyes going wide. “No, I don’t know. What thing with what guy outside your window?”

  Briefly, I recounted the shock of finding someone peering through my apartment window. To my surprise, Lena didn’t look horrified—instead, she nodded knowingly.

  “That’s the worst. I lived in an English basement when I first moved to DC, too. Once I forgot to close my curtains and woke up to find some perv literally jerking off on the other side of my window.”

  “Gross. What did you do?”

  “Closed the curtains and called the police. First things first, right? Then I signed up for a self-defense class.” She curled her pale lips into a proud smile. “Ask me how to break a nose.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I said as wheels began to turn in my head. A self-defense class would help me feel less helpless, sure, but think of the content! Instagram Stories from a lively, empowering class—I could recruit Cat to help with the filming; me wearing this cute new Outdoor Voices workout set I’d been looking for an excuse to buy and adding swipe-up affiliate links; a serious post and perhaps some videos about the scourge of violence against women and opportunities to take action.

  Take that, I thought to the stranger outside my window. You think you’re going to take advantage of me? I’m going to monetize the hell out of you.

  Lena interrupted my thoughts with a low groan. “Don’t look now, but here comes Lecherous Larry.”

  “Who?” I asked, looking around the lobby, expecting to see the usual creep, but he wasn’t there. Neither was anyone else who looked particularly unsavory. I glanced back at her and realized with a start that she was looking at Lawrence, who was heading toward us with a coffee in his hand, wearing the orange shirt I’d helped select.

  “You mean Lawrence?”

  “I can’t stand that guy. He’s so grabby,” she muttered, while smiling at him as he approached. “Hi, Lawrence.”

  “Ladies,” he said, dropping into the chair beside mine and throwing an arm across my seat back. “How’s the day treating you?”

  “No complaints,” I said. “At least, not now that I have this caffeine.”

  “We should really get back to work,” Lena said, standing abruptly. “Come on, Audrey.”

  I could feel Lena’s pointed stare even without looking at her, and I was baffled. Lawrence had never been anything other than friendly to me. He’d certainly never been “grabby.” But I didn’t want a scene in the lobby, and I actually did need to get back to work, so I rose to follow her and offered Lawrence an apologetic smile. “See you around.”

  He waved languidly, but then looked up as if suddenly remembering something. “Oh, Audrey? Your friend is here.”

  “My friend?” I repeated, surprised. Cat was here? Had we had a coffee date that I’d forgotten about?

  “You know the one,” he said, smirking slightly. “President of your fan club.”

  My stomach churned. I felt unsafe at home; I shouldn’t have to feel unsafe at work, too. A self-defense class was exactly what I needed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  HIM

  I couldn’t get the post out of my mind. You can watch them all the time.

  All the time.

  The allure of having access to her even when she was alone, even when she wanted to remain private, was hard to ignore. I knew that installing a remote administration tool—or RAT, as they called it—on her computer was an inappropriate thing to do, but I had lost all sense of reason when it came to Audrey. Her thin, flawless fingers had burrowed an opening in my skin, and she had slipped into my bloodstream whole. She coursed through my body; every heartbeat echoed her name. I couldn’t even close my eyes without seeing her perfect face carved into the backs of my eyelids.

  Midway through another sleepless night, the siren song of the forums became too insistent to be ignored. I grabbed my laptop and logged on, refusing to admit my intentions to myself even as I navigated straight to the “All Access” thread in the VIP forum.

  All the time. I could see what she was doing that very minute. My fingers itched, scrolling quickly through all seventy-six responses, looking for the pertinent information. Maybe it was the lack of sleep catching up with me, or maybe it was simple depravity, but I found myself nodding along as I read. Installing the RAT began to seem reasonable. After all, it wouldn’t hurt Audrey in any way. She would never even know.

  Besides, Audrey shared so much of herself online. She invited this. She wanted it.

  It seemed so simple. All I had to do was download the desktop program onto my computer, and then have Audrey download another program onto hers. Once both were in place, I could control Audrey’s computer remotely. I could look through files, view her screen, and, most important, turn on her camera and microphone so I could observe her in real time.

  Simple, maybe, but far from easy. Everything was predicated on convincing Audrey to download the program, and she was much too savvy to fall for some amateur attempt at spam. Navigating this would be like walking a high wire, where any misstep could prove fatal. If Audrey recognized the attempt to gain access for what it was, or even just recognized it as something suspicious, and was able to connect it to me, everything would be lost. All the stars in our universe could align and there still wouldn’t be any help for me then.

  I knew I had to be cautious, and so I vowed not to act until I had a solid plan in place. I began combing through Audrey’s accounts, and thirty minutes later, I found my opening on a two-day-old Instagram po
st. It was about something called microblading, and I had initially skimmed the post because I didn’t completely understand. Tattooed eyebrows? That didn’t sound right. Surely I was missing something.

  But I didn’t miss the last couple lines of her post: Have you had microblading done? I’d love to see your results!

  There it was, as near to an engraved invitation as I was going to get. Hiding behind a VPN, I started a new message in an email account I’d created under the name “Aria Williams,” the kind of upper-middle-class millennial white girl name that I imagined belonged to her followers. I pasted in Audrey’s email address, prominently displayed on her blog.

  Subject: Fan letter + microblading vid

  Audrey! I’m a huge fan! I would DIE for hair like yours! Anyway, I saw you ask for pictures of microbladed brows. I’ve had mine done and love it—my coloring is similar to yours, too! I attached a short video of the process for you to see. xx

  Then, hands shaking with a potent combination of nerves and excitement, I added an attachment. I had named the attachment “microblading-vid,” but that’s not what it was. Rather, it was the program that would install the RAT on her computer. I hesitated, wondering if the attempt was too clumsy. File name aside, if Audrey paid the slightest bit of attention to the file size, she would realize it was far too large to be a “short video.”

  But I was desperate.

  I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs to their capacity, and hit “send.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CAT

  I had told Audrey I couldn’t join her at some self-defense class she’d found, and still she appeared on my porch on Sunday morning, wearing a cropped, emerald-green exercise shirt that exposed her taut stomach, tricolor leggings, and a high ponytail.

  “Good morning,” she sang, handing me a to-go cup from Columbia Brews. “Ready to kick some ass?”

  I frowned, trying to recall the exact conversation I’d had with Audrey. I was certain I told her about the new memo Bill had assigned me. Bill had a reputation for being ruthless; a chance to redeem myself and still earn a spot on his trial team was an unexpected gift, and I couldn’t squander it.

  “No,” I said slowly. “I have to work. Remember?”

  She rolled her eyes dramatically, giving me a view of the new lash extensions I’d heard so much about. “How could I forget? You always have to work. But I remember you said your thing isn’t due until Wednesday, which is three whole days away. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  You and your not taking no for an answer is the entire reason I’m in trouble at work, I thought irritably.

  Before I could say anything, though, her demeanor changed, a flicker of fear showing through her veneer of carefully applied makeup and wide smile. “Please, Kitty-Cat? I’m just so sick and tired of feeling helpless.”

  How could I say no? After all, Audrey was right. There was more than enough time to finish the memo over the next three days. I could spare an hour or two for my best friend in her time of need. She would do the same for me.

  Would she? a nasty little voice inside my head asked. Isn’t it always about what Audrey wants?

  Shut up, I told myself. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

  * * *

  IN LAW SCHOOL, a so-called self-defense expert had given a presentation to the student body. He had been a short, muscle-bound man wearing a gray sweat suit, and he had demonstrated several quick motions before unloading a case of pepper spray to sell us. I still had the canister rattling around the bottom of my purse; I had no idea if it had an expiration date.

  The class Audrey had selected, however, was nothing like that uninspiring display. It was much more of a workout class, led by a pair of energetic instructors who introduced themselves as “Samantha and Samuel … but you can call us Sam!” When they turned on a soundtrack of electronic music, I thought I’d made a grave mistake in coming, but soon I was enjoying myself. Typical exercise classes made me feel shy, but because the focus of this class was self-defense rather than vanity, no one was looking at my body.

  Which is not to say that vanity didn’t enter the equation. Audrey kept pressing her rose-gold iPhone into my hands and instructing me to record her, then pausing to ask if her facial expression had been right or if her arm had looked weird. If I hesitated for even a split second, she’d insist on redoing the whole thing. Sam and Sam seemed oblivious, but the other class participants were plainly annoyed. “I didn’t know there was a celebrity in our class,” one woman said in a loud, sarcastic voice. I shrank a little, embarrassed, but Audrey merely beamed in the woman’s direction.

  Once things got moving, though, Audrey relaxed on the constant filming, and we had a good time.

  “Amazing, right?” Audrey asked when class ended, not waiting for an answer before wrapping one of her damp arms around me and taking a selfie. The class had left me sweaty, spent, and euphoric, and I smiled widely, for once not remembering to be self-conscious.

  “Amazing,” I agreed. “Thanks for insisting I come.”

  “Remember that next time you try to weasel out of something because you have to work,” she said with a laugh, and kissed me on the cheek. “I always know what’s best for you.”

  * * *

  I HAD PLANNED to turn back to the memo, but, still high on endorphins, I let Audrey drag me back to her apartment for brunch. It was the first time I’d been over since she moved in, and I was surprised to see not much had changed. One corner of the living room held a trendy table and lamp, pieces I had seen posted on her Instagram account (I’d started checking the app in order to keep up with Audrey) and had assumed were indicative of the rest of her decor. The only other furniture in her living room was incredibly incongruous: one slouchy, bright pink beanbag chair; one small, cheap-looking desk cluttered with mail, makeup, and cords; and one folding chair. The rest of the space was filled with open boxes, the contents spilling out onto the floor.

  Once I had recovered from my shock, I asked diplomatically, “Do you need help unpacking?”

  “Oh, I’m not unpacking,” she said. “Unpacking would mean I’m staying here, and I am definitely not staying here.”

  “What are—”

  “Ugh, no,” Audrey said, covering her ears with her hands. “I absolutely do not want to talk about the problems with this place or my uninspiring apartment search. I’m taking the day off from it, and instead we’re having brunch in bed.”

  “Brunch” turned out to be animal crackers, a container of slightly past-prime strawberries, a carton of orange juice, and two bottles of sparkling wine. I looked at the spread and laughed because we’d often enjoyed the exact same meal, also eaten in bed, while in college. To really drive that point home, Audrey set up her laptop at the end of her bed and put on a playlist full of our old favorite pop stars from college (Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Rihanna) and the older artists Audrey always played in our room (Blondie, the Talking Heads, David Bowie), cut through with the obscure indie bands she enjoyed. Between the nostalgic songs and the homemade mimosas, an onslaught of warm, fuzzy memories beset me: late-night “dance breaks” as we crammed for finals, getting ready for sorority formals together, clutching hands as we walked home from campus bars in the dark.

  “Come stay with me,” I said impulsively. “My guest bedroom is all yours while you look for a new apartment. You shouldn’t stay someplace where you’re afraid.”

  She groaned. “I told you, Cat, I don’t want to talk about this today.”

  “I know, but that doesn’t make the situation go away. I hate the idea of someone looking at you through this window.”

  Sighing heavily, she said, “You and me both. But, as far as I know, no one has been in the alley again. There have been some random scratches that have been freaking me out, but I think it’s just this mangy cat I keep seeing around the dumpster. I haven’t even had any problems with Ryan from upstairs lately. Honestly, the only thing getting to me now is my own imagination. Have I told you I’ve actually been waki
ng myself up at night?” She tapped at her phone and tossed it to me. “Here, press ‘play’ and see what I mean.”

  Obediently, I pressed the moon-shaped “play” button on the star-bedecked app open on Audrey’s phone. There was some static and then Audrey’s voice clearly said, “I’m scared,” followed almost immediately by a loud gasping noise.

  I looked up with alarm. “What was that?”

  “Exactly what I’m talking about,” she said wryly. “I’ve been scaring myself awake.”

  “Then come stay with me,” I urged. “Audrey—”

  Her phone buzzed in my hands, interrupting me. I looked down to see a text message from Nick: Tonight?

  “Um, Nick wants you,” I said, handing the phone back to her.

  She smirked and waggled her groomed brows suggestively. “You bet he does.”

  Tongue loosened by the mimosas, I said, “I don’t understand what you’re doing with him. There was a reason the two of you broke up.”

  “Yeah, because he was moving here.”

  “And now because you’re here, you guys are dating again?”

  “No, I’m not trying to date Nick. He just, you know, comes over to keep me company.”

  “Somehow I doubt he’s coming over to play Scrabble or watch Jeopardy!”

  She giggled. “Not exactly.”

  I shook my head in disgust.

  “Oh, come on, Cat, lighten up. It’s just Nick. We’re just having fun.”

  “But why are you wasting your time with that sleaze? You could have anyone you wanted.”

  Anyone, I thought bitterly.

  “Sleaze?” Audrey echoed, eyes widening. “Have another drink, Cat, and tell me how you really feel.”

  I flushed. “I’m just—”

  “Forget it,” Audrey said, pouring more champagne into my plastic cup. “Let’s not talk about my boring sex life.”