Follow Me

by Kathleen Barber

  “Of course not. Have you called the police?”

  I sniffled an affirmative.

  “Okay, good. I’m coming over.” He paused. “You want me to come over, right?”

  “Yes,” I sobbed. “God, yes, Max. Please come. I need you.”

  * * *

  NO ONE WAS INSIDE the apartment. But someone certainly had been. Every cabinet and drawer in the kitchen had been opened and its minimal contents strewn across the floor. My boxes were upended, the cardboard torn. My closet had been riffled through, my clothing pulled from the hangers and piled on the floor, my carefully organized shoes ripped from their boxes and thrown around the room. Everything that could have been disturbed was, right down to a roll of paper towels, which was unwound and stretched around the room like a demented streamer.

  For all the destruction, nothing seemed to be missing. The vintage Chanel flap bag I’d painstakingly sourced from eBay sat untouched on my bed where I had left it the day before; the real pearl necklace my parents had given me for my sixteenth birthday was under my overturned jewelry box.

  After the officers had taken their report and left, I surveyed the wreckage of my belongings. If I weren’t standing right in the middle of it, staring at the slashed and gutted remains of my beanbag chair, I wouldn’t have believed it had really happened. Why would someone terrorize me this way? What did they want?

  “Someone must be really mad at you,” Max said quietly beside me.

  “But why?” I asked, my voice catching in my throat. “I don’t get it. What have I done? I’m a good person, Max. At least I try to be.”

  “Hey,” he said, kissing me on the forehead. “You are a good person. You didn’t do anything to deserve this, okay?” He paused and looked around. “Unless … unless you can think of someone who might think you did.”

  “No, not really. I’ve had some problems with my neighbor, but he would have robbed me. There was an issue with a colleague at work, but that’s behind us and, anyway, I can’t imagine he would tear my home apart. There’s this creep who hangs around the museum, but …” I trailed off as I realized something. “Jesus, Max, this must be the same person who was in here that night. To think they had so much violence in them and they were standing there, watching me sleep …” I choked back tears, unable to continue.

  “Come on,” Max said, wrapping a protective arm around my shoulder and drawing me in close. “Let’s go back to my place. We can talk about this there.”

  “Yes, thanks,” I said, collapsing against him. “I think it’s time I get serious about finding a new apartment.”

  “Agreed,” he said, bending down to kiss me gently on the top of my head. “But, Audrey, you can stay with me for as long as you want. You’ll be safe at my apartment, I promise. Whoever this creep is, he won’t find you there.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  HIM

  An excess of adrenaline was still surging through my veins, leaving me amped and on edge. I couldn’t concentrate on anything; all I could do was think back to the moment I’d stepped inside Audrey’s apartment that afternoon. I’d let myself in with the key I’d sweet-talked from the landlady weeks ago, and stopped to appreciate the warm sunlight streaming through her windows. The small unit looked cozy and inviting, even with the mess of moving boxes Audrey had let overtake the space. Every single time I came by her place, I expected to see at least some of them unpacked, but she had yet to make a dent. She really was such a slob. It was impossible to know that about her from her carefully composed online presence, but I had realized she would live in filth if left to her own devices.

  Just another example of how she needed me.

  I lifted a sticky wineglass from the floor beside her beanbag chair and hesitated. I imagined the shock and horror she would experience; I almost put down that dirty glass and left. I didn’t want to traumatize her. But I had to make a point.

  You’re doing this because you love her, I reminded myself as I flung the goblet against the wall. It shattered in an explosion of cheap glass. I grabbed a fashion magazine splayed open on the floor and ripped its cover, tore its glossy pages into confetti. I felt a thrill as I threw them in the air. I was panting; my heart felt outsized.

  And then I let myself go.

  There was something cathartic in trashing her apartment. All the emotion I had been feeling coalesced into one swirling vortex of destruction. I lost track of time and myself as I flung clothing around the room, ripped her sheets from her bed, smashed palettes of makeup.

  Afterward, I stood in the middle of her living room, dizzy, panting, looking at the devastation with wonder. Had I really done all that? There was no way she could misunderstand the depth of my emotion now. Satisfied, I staggered out the front door, not bothering to shut it behind me.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  AUDREY

  After everything that had happened, I was in no hurry to live alone again. I could find another apartment, but how could I be certain that this maniac wouldn’t follow me there? I felt safe at Max’s, high above the street, protected by a doorman, and wrapped tightly in Max’s comforting arms. There, I could almost forget all the unsettling occurrences that had plagued me since I moved to the city.

  Almost, but not quite.

  Naked in Max’s bed, streaming Ted and the Honey’s new acoustic album and ranking our favorite songs, I was outwardly laughing and smiling, but my mind was still stuck on the other night. Even as I argued the pros of my perennial favorite, “This One’s for You,” I could see my destroyed apartment: my clothing strewn about, wineglasses smashed on the floor, my pricey Harry Josh hair dryer cracked. Involuntarily, I shivered.

  “Come on, baby, the lyrics aren’t that good,” Max said gently, kissing my shoulder. “What are you thinking about?”

  “My apartment,” I admitted. “I’m still really freaked out.”

  “That’s understandable. I can’t imagine how it must have felt to see your place torn apart like that. There was so much anger there. Have you thought any more about who might be that upset with you?”

  “Only Cat,” I said, half laughing.

  “You don’t think—” Max said haltingly.

  “No! Of course not. I’m only teasing. Well, I’m not teasing about Cat being mad. She wouldn’t admit it, but I think she was pissed that I brought you to that party the other week. And then I know she was upset I didn’t go to trivia with her last night. But there’s no way Cat would do something like that. I mean, can you imagine her making that kind of mess? She’s so pathologically neat she would have stroked out on the spot.”

  “Right,” Max said thoughtfully.

  “Hey,” I said, trying to change the subject. “I’m famished. Let’s have lunch. Is there any more of that curry?”

  “No, sorry. But I could run out and pick up some Thai food.”

  “Don’t go,” I said, twining my arms around his neck. “We’ll starve and die together. It’ll be romantic.”

  “You’re an odd woman.” He laughed, kissing me and slipping out of bed. He stepped into pants and pulled a shirt over his toned chest, then pointed at me. “Don’t you move a muscle. I’ll be back with pad thai before you know it.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I promised.

  * * *

  JUST AS I HEARD the front door shut behind him, the album we had been streaming finished its last song and began again. I rolled over and reached for his laptop on his bedside table. I was scrolling through Spotify, considering the options—Max had such great taste in music, and I wanted to impress him with the perfect playlist when he came back—when something in the upper right-hand corner of his desktop caught my eye.

  A folder titled “Audrey.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. What could he be keeping in a folder with my name on it? Maybe something for my birthday next month? Maybe those tips on Thai travel he’d promised me? Normally I wouldn’t open someone’s personal file—or, at least, I would feel slightly guilty abo
ut doing so—but this one had my name on it. He was practically begging me to open it. I double-clicked the folder.

  My smile faltered.

  The folder held hundreds if not thousands of photographs. As far as I could tell from the thumbnails, they were all faraway shots of a woman. I enlarged the first and saw myself walking down Fourteenth Street, sipping an iced latte while wearing a light blue dress and round sunglasses. I frowned. Something felt wrong. Maybe it was the way I wasn’t looking at the camera. I didn’t remember Max taking a candid of me while I was walking.

  Suddenly, my heart skipped a beat as I recognized the dress I was wearing. It was the blue flowered Madewell dress that I had accidentally spilled red wine on in mid-July, nearly a full month before I met Max. I loved that dress but I hadn’t been able to get out the stain, and I’d had to throw it away.

  Why did Max have a photo of me wearing it?

  I opened the next photo, and it was another shot of me in the same outfit, seemingly taken mere seconds later. The next photo was more of the same. I kept clicking open photos until I realized there were at least fifty of me in that same outfit, walking down the same street, sipping the same drink.

  What the fuck?

  I opened another photo at random and saw me, clad in black Lululemon and with my hair in a sweaty ponytail, digging in my bag, as if searching for my keys. The viewpoint was from across the street, as though the photographer had been watching me from afar.

  Not “the photographer,” I corrected myself. Max.

  Cold reality drenched me as I realized what that meant: Max had been taking surreptitious photos of me long before we met. Max had been watching me. Max had been stalking me.

  I shot out of bed and fumbled for my clothing. My limbs shook as I stepped back into my jeans, pulled my shirt over my head. Max is stalking me. All those times I’d heard someone in the alley, all those times I’d thought someone was behind me … it had been Max. Jesus, what if he had been the one in my apartment, too?

  I checked the time on my phone, trying to judge how long he had been gone. How long would it take him to pick up our usual order of pad thai and papaya salad and return to the apartment? I had to get out of there before he returned. In a panic, I closed the folder and replaced the laptop where I found it, and then grabbed my bag and began shoving my loose belongings into it: my laptop, my wallet, my sunglasses.

  Just get out of here! my brain screamed at me. Leave your stuff behind!

  I was halfway to the door before I paused. I looked back into his familiar apartment, noticing the empty LaCroix can I’d left on the counter, the Atlantic Max had been reading last night splayed on the arm of the couch. The door to his bedroom stood open, his soft bed with its sheets probably still warm from my body heat just beyond it. Ted and the Honey continued playing from his laptop, as though I hadn’t just discovered something life changing and horrible on it. How could everything still seem so normal?

  Max is the stalker.

  I raced out of his apartment, opening the Lyft app as I did so. I hesitated when it asked my destination. I couldn’t go home. Home wasn’t safe. Besides, it was the first place Max would think to look for me. I plugged in Cat’s address. Cat would help me. I could always count on her.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CAT

  As I carried the pale pink nail polish to Monet’s station, my phone buzzed for the fifth time. I glanced down to see Audrey’s name on my caller ID once more.

  Maybe I should answer, I thought. Something must be wrong for her to call this many times in a row.

  But just as quickly, I reminded myself of all the times in college that Audrey had acted like the sky was falling when she and Nick had had a quarrel. She’d probably had some minor spat with Max. If I came running every time Audrey called, I would never get anything done. And, with the Phillips trial fast approaching, I had a lot that needed to get done.

  I sank into the chair opposite Monet and turned on its vibrating massage feature. I wasn’t going to let Audrey and whatever was going on with Max ruin my weekly ritual, my one chance to unwind.

  “This color again?” Monet said, clucking her tongue. “What is it this time? A client?”

  “I’m going to New York for a trial next week,” I said with no small amount of pride. “I’m actually going to be making an argument in court.”

  “Well, look at you!” she exclaimed, holding up her hand for a high five. I laughed and slapped her palm. This was more of a reaction than I’d gotten from Audrey when I’d relayed that same news to her. I’d had to do it over text message, since she couldn’t be bothered to disentangle herself from Max for more than two seconds, and she’d responded by “liking” my message. She hadn’t even taken the time to type “Congratulations.” I’d stared at the phone, waiting for something else, some sort of personal message, but none was forthcoming.

  As Monet began to remove last week’s polish, my phone went off again. I apologized and reached to silence it, noticing the text on its screen as I did so: CAT PLEASE ANSWER OMW TO YOUR PLACE HELP I NEED YOU.

  I hesitated. What if Audrey really did need me? What if she’d learned something more about the person who had been in her apartment? Or if she’d had some sort of other encounter? Doubt gnawed at my stomach, and I realized that my nail appointment was already ruined.

  I sighed and pulled out my wallet. “I’m sorry to do this, but I’m going to have to reschedule.”

  Monet’s eyebrows jumped in surprise. I didn’t blame her; it was the first time in four years that I had canceled on her like this. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m sure everything’s fine. One of my friends just needs to be talked down from a ledge.”

  * * *

  AUDREY WAS WAITING on the steps outside my building when I arrived home, and she looked terrible. Her face, devoid of makeup other than smudgy, leftover eyeliner, looked almost gray, and her eyes were glassy and wide. I immediately felt guilty for not answering her earlier calls.

  “Are you okay?”

  She shook her head violently and drew her arms more tightly across her chest, as though she had to physically hold herself together. I hurried her into the apartment and poured her a glass of water, which she ignored.

  “What’s going on?”

  She swallowed hard and turned frightened, wet eyes to me. “Max has photos of me.”

  I sipped my own water, waiting for more. Audrey papered the internet with images of herself; of course her boyfriend had some.

  “Photos of me,” she repeated significantly, as if that might help me understand. “On his computer.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly.

  “No, Cat. Not okay. He has photos he shouldn’t have.”

  “Oh!” I said, my cheeks burning as I suddenly caught what she was saying. “You mean he has intimate photos.”

  “No, not nudes. Photos of me just … doing stuff. Drinking coffee, walking, coming home from exercising.” She drew a ragged breath and when she spoke her voice was a squeak. “I think … I think Max has been watching me.”

  “Audrey, everyone has been watching you,” I said. “You post photos of yourself online all day long. So Max saved some of them to his computer. I don’t understand what’s so upsetting about that.”

  Her eyes widened, their blue-green color brilliant underneath the sheen of tears. “Are you even listening to me? These aren’t photos I’ve posted. These are photos I’ve never seen of myself, photos that are like … I don’t know, like paparazzi shots or something.”

  I felt a bubble of inappropriate laughter rise in my throat. Of course Audrey assumed she had paparazzi, like she was some sort of celebrity. I could see she was distressed, but phrases like that made it so hard for me to take her seriously.

  “Breathe,” I instructed, taking her hands. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. What did Max say?”

  “He doesn’t know I saw them. He went out to pick up lunch and left music running on his computer. I went to ch
ange the album and … I saw them. Just sitting there on his desktop in a folder labeled ‘Audrey.’ I mean, what the hell, Cat, it’s almost like he wanted me to see them.” She paused and pressed a hand against her mouth. “I freaked out. I mean, wouldn’t you? I picked up and left, and I haven’t answered any of his calls or texts. I can’t. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what any of this means, other than that he’s the one who’s been stalking me.”

  “Audrey, no,” I told her gently. “You know that’s not true. This is Max. Come on, you just have to talk to him. I know you said you’ve never seen them, but you post so many photos, how could you ever keep track?”

  “I didn’t post these pictures,” Audrey said stubbornly.

  I doubted she could be so certain, but saw no point in continuing to argue with her.

  “Okay,” I said placatingly. “You didn’t post them. You still have to talk to him. This is your boyfriend, Audrey. Do you really believe he’s the one who’s been stalking you?”

  “No. Jesus, Cat, he’s so nice. I can no more imagine him tearing apart my apartment than I can you doing it.”

  “There you go. Haven’t you always said that you trust your gut?”

  She tapped her manicured fingers together in thought. “You’ve known Max longer than I have, Cat. Can you imagine him doing something like this?”

  A person never forgets camp.

  “No,” I said firmly, curling my bare nails into my palms. “Just talk to him. There has to be a reasonable explanation for this.”

  * * *

  “TELL ME THERE’S a reasonable explanation for this,” I hissed on the phone to Max. He had started calling me almost as soon as Audrey had, but I waited to return his call until Audrey had retreated to the bathroom with a glass of wine and a jar of my best bath salts.