I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the building settling around me.The hum of the refrigerator.The distant rumble of a truck passing on Route 460.The creak of footsteps above me as Mrs.Kawra makes her nightly trip to the bathroom.
And on the other side of the wall, nothing.
Timothy Shannon is quiet.Too quiet.I keep expecting to hear his television or the sound of him moving around, but there's only silence.
Which means he's either asleep or doing the same thing I am.Lying awake.Thinking.
I roll onto my side and punch the pillow, trying to get comfortable.It doesn't work.
My brain won't shut off.It keeps replaying the parking lot.The black Ram.The way Timothy stepped between me and the truck without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world.Like he had every right to put himself between me and danger.
And the stupid thing is, I let him.
Worse than that, I was grateful.
I throw off the covers and get up.The apartment is dark except for the glow of the streetlight filtering through the blinds.I pace to the window and look out at the parking lot below.
Empty.Quiet.No black Ram.
It wasn't Randall.I know that now.The guy in the truck was too old, too heavy, wrong everything.But for those few seconds, my body didn't care about logic.It just knew: threat.Run.Hide.
Except I didn't run.
Because Timothy was there.
I press my forehead against the cool glass and close my eyes.
This is bad.This whole thing is bad.
I came here to disappear.To keep my head down and rebuild something that looks like a life.The last thing I need is a neighbor who notices things.Who follows me home to make sure I'm safe.Who looks at me like he's already planning how to fix problems I haven't even told him about.
The last thing I need is to notice him back.
But I do.
I noticed the way his shoulders filled out that Henley.The way his voice stayed calm even when I was two seconds from losing it.
"Get it together," I mutter to myself.
I move away from the window and go to the kitchen, and make myself a cup of tea.I’m steadier now than I was this afternoon, but I can still feel the crash coming.Adrenaline doesn't just disappear.It lingers.It builds up in your system until your body forces it out, usually in the form of shaking or tears or both.
I check the locks on the door.Deadbolt.Chain.Doorknob.All secure.
Then I go back to the living room and sink onto the couch, pulling a blanket over my legs even though I'm not cold.
I shouldn't have told him my name.Shouldn't have let him walk me to my car.Shouldn't have looked into those hazel eyes and felt something I haven't let myself feel in months.
Safe.
God, what a joke.I haven't been safe since the day I met Randall Shelly.Maybe not even before that.
The clock on the wall ticks past midnight.Then one.Then two.
I flip through channels on the television, not watching anything, just letting the noise fill the silence.Some cooking show.A rerun of Law and Order.An infomercial for a blender that can apparently crush rocks.
I should try to sleep.I have a shift at the diner in the morning.Six to two.I need to be functional.Need to smile at customers and pour coffee and pretend I'm a normal person living a normal life.
But every time I close my eyes, I see the black Ram.I see Randall's face.I feel his hands.
