Ellie
I haven’t seen Jack in two days. Not since I found all of the financial files that don’t make sense. I don’t know where he’s been staying—it certainly hasn’t been at the apartment. I imagine he’s staying at his office. I spent all day Sunday hibernating in bed and ruminating on all the things I don’t know about my husband. I even searched the local real-estate market for two-bedrooms with a view of the park, briefly entertaining the idea of selling everything and starting over somewhere else. I’ve never asked much about my father and Jack’s business dealings, but now I’m thinking I should have. It’s hard to fathom leaving Jack and living alone—I’ve never lived by myself—but then, what choice do I have? I can’t just sit here with my head in the sand, can I?
I considered talking to my dad about it—he’s the only other person I trust—but I don’t even trust him anymore. The truth is I don’t know who to trust. My faith has been rocked—I feel like every instinct I have about people has been wrong. I think about all the questions I have for my father, and about the fact that The Society expects my next target to be him. I haven’t parsed outall of the details, but I know one thing for sure: I can’t rely on anyone but myself in this life.
“El—delivery!” One of the executive assistants calls through the crack in my door.
My heart sinks. I’m like Pavlov’s dog when it comes to deliveries now—my anxiety skyrockets each time a box lands on my doorstep, whether it’s at home or the office.
I haul myself out of my desk chair and walk the short distance to the assistant’s desk to find a large box waiting for me.
“Looks like someone was up all night ordering some goodies.” Her eyes dart to the box and then to me.
I ignore her and lift the box. It’s heavy. I curse under my breath as I walk with it back to my office. I close the door because I know I’m going to need privacy for whatever this is. I cut the tape on the box with a letter opener and then groan when I find more glass bottles of milk, cream, and honey. On top of everything sits a note that says:
If you don’t do it, you’ll regret it.
I swallow, hands trembling as I hold the note in my hands. It’s obviously from The Society. They clearly don’t like that I haven’t answered their emails and haven’t made a move on my father. Maybe I should send a quick email and explain that I have a conflict of interest with this target. I think about how to explain that I can’t take down the next rapist asshole on their list because he raised me. Tucked me in at night, showed up at my dance recitals, shared every holiday dinner with me and still does...
This is without a doubt the reason I was chosen. My heart hurts at the thought. If he’s guilty, how can I let him get awaywith hurting people? And if he’s not... how am I supposed to escape the overbearing clutches of these powerful women in The Society? I’m not even sure how to find out the truth of the situation. I can’t exactly ask. I think then of Aubrey and the police reports from the women accusing my father of horrendous abuses. Is it true? Could the documents have been altered?
I shove the note back into the box and close it, walking it straight out of my door and to the trash chute across the office. I don’t care who knows, who finds out, who gets angry; threat or no threat, I have no intention of giving my father this gift—no matter how harmless it may seem.
By the time I’m back at my desk my mind is whirring with all the possibilities I may not have considered. As soon as I sit down, I open a new internet search window and type in the name Aubrey Collins. It takes me exactly ten minutes to come to the conclusion that there is no evidence of her on the internet—no social media profiles, no LinkedIn with a work history—nothing. She’s practically a ghost as far as the internet is concerned—and it’s basically impossible not to have left a trail on the internet these days.
My heart sinks as I think back on all the things I’ve told her, all the time we’ve spent together. Who is she? Why is she here? It occurs to me then that I wouldn’t put it past my father to hire someone to watch out for me. He’s been worried for a long time about my mental stability—would he go so far as to hire a caregiver like Aubrey on the quiet to keep an eye on me?
By the time lunch comes, I haven’t focused for more than a minute at a time, so I send an email to my manager saying I’ll be working from home the rest of the day. Maybe even the rest of the week. Maybe forever.
Twenty-Nine
Ellie
I wake with a jolt. My heart hammers and my throat is dry. I search my memory for a dream or a nightmare that woke me, but I can’t remember anything. My arm is throbbing and the bandage feels damp, like it needs to be changed. I think again that maybe I should have gone to the hospital for stitches, but I can’t face the fact that I might be hurting myself at night, on top of everything else.
Correction:Iamhurting myself.
I push out of bed, finding the sheets are damp with sweat. Whatever I was dreaming about must have been stressful. It’s not even two in the morning and I feel like I’ve been asleep for days. I rub the sleep from my eyes and make my way to the bathroom. I splash my face with cold water and then make quick work of changing the bandage on my arm. My stomach growls, reminding me that I didn’t have anything to eat all day. I pad to the kitchen, the realization hitting me that despite the fact that Jack hasn’t been here much at all these last few months, it’s still weird to wake up in the middle of the night and not have him here.
This is what being single feels like, I think. No one else to remind you to eat dinner or to drive you to the emergency room when you have a sleepwalking episode that turns bloody. I grab a bottle of Advil from the cupboard and swallow two of them with orange juice, then hunt through the fridge for anything to eat. I decide on a sandwich and pull mustard, sliced turkey, and cheese from the drawer and a loaf of sourdough from the bin. I move to the kitchen island and pull a butter knife from the drawer, turning back to my bread on the counter before my eyes land on something unusual.
I gasp, the knife falling from my hand and clattering into the sink.
It’s a gun. A shiny, gunmetal-colored handgun lying in my sink as if it belongs there. Or as if someone had been cleaning it and then just stepped away for a moment.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, leaning closer to inspect the weapon. Maybe it’s fake, I think. But nothing about this gun looks fake. My fingers tremble as I reach out to touch it, but then think better at the last minute. I’ll need to call the police. I’ve never been around guns, and to my knowledge neither has Jack. What if I’m wrong, though? What if this is just another secret he’s been keeping from me?
My legs go weak and I plant a hand on the counter to keep myself from falling. My arm is suddenly throbbing again, right along with my brain. What is going on? DidIdo this?
And then I think of the threatening note that came with the box of cream and honey earlier.
If you don’t do this, you’ll regret it.
Is this what they meant? And then a more terrifying realization hits me: either I did this while I was sleepwalking... or someone wasinmy apartment while I slept.
Fear throttles my system.
Did Jack do this? Aubrey? Or could it be the person who’s been stalking me? Or maybe it was a member of The Society—just how much pull do those well-heeled women have?
