That bitch has such a strange last name that it’s not easy to memorize it, but I knew that when I saw it I’d recognize it.
S. Asoine
That has to be Sarah. If I ring the buzzer, Sarah is going to know it’s me, and that’s going to be weird. I need to find a way inside the building.
So I wait.
If my husband is here, he’s inside with Sarah. There is no reason that my husband has to be at Sarah’s apartment unless something else is going on.
It can’t be. I’m shaking so fucking bad right now because this cannot be real life. Hoping with all hope that’s not the case, that little demon on my shoulder is telling me that Sarah and my husband are having an affair.
He was so honest with me though. Lincoln said to my face that there was nobody else, and we’ve been in such a good place for the past two weeks, but if this were the truth, it would be so out of left field.
There has to be another explanation, if he’s even here.
Fifty minutes pass by, and an older woman heads up to the building. The woman looks at me suspiciously.
“Who are you?” the old woman bristles as she almost passes me.
“My best friend lives here. Sarah. I mean, she thinks she’s my best friend, but you know how she is. I’m doing a wellness check. I buzzed her but she’s not answering. I know she’s a heavy sleeper, but now I’m getting actually really worried. I tried calling her, I just want to know if she’s okay, or maybe you can knock on her door for me and tell me if she’s okay.”
I try to make sure my face is believable. The old woman, with a face that looks like it was carved out of rock, closes her eyes and hobbles past me as she opens the door.
“I’ll let you up,” she says as she opens the door.
It makes that telltale sound to allow people entry.
“Thank you so much. I’m not going to be long. Just want to see if she’s alive,” I say, knowing full well that if I had been a man this woman probably wouldn’t have thrown me a bone.
212.
That’s the room number.
My bones seem to shake with each climb of the stairs until I walk down the deep hallway and end up in front of the red door with big numbers on it.
It’s quiet. I don’t have a key to Sarah’s door, obviously. Then I hear muffled noise.
The only thing I can do is play the wellness-check angle. I go downstairs throughout the apartment to see if there’s a front desk or something.
On the first floor, I see someone who looks like a janitor or a maid. The woman is dark-skinned and has a very sweet face.
“Hi,” I say, trying not to shake and to keep my emotions at bay.
“Afternoon,” the woman says with a thick accent, maybe Caribbean or something, or some kind of African country.
Putting on a bright smile, I play the role. “So my friend Sarah hasn’t been answering her phone. She’s in 212. I’m kind of concerned because she claimed that her boyfriend, her ex-boyfriend, was very aggressive with her, and I just want to know if she’s okay. She’s not answering the door, she’s not answering her phone. I hope it’s not too much trouble but… could you check up on her for me please?”
“Sure. What room is she in again?” the nice lady offers.
“212.”
The woman walks toward the elevator and holds the door for me as I get in. I make myself look nervous to sell it, which isn’t hard, because I am.
You know that horrible knowing sensation in the pit of your stomach when you’re about to find out something you don’t want to find out? That’s what I’m feeling right now.
Because my sixth sense is telling me that my husband is in that room.
They could have walked out ahead of time, but something tells me that they’re still in there.
