And I think I know who that someone is.
The thought should terrify me. Itdoesterrify me. But underneath the fear is something else, something I don't want to examine too closely. A dark thrill, a twisted kind of flattery, the knowledge that someone out there thinks I'm worth this much effort.
I think about the man in Boston, about the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world, about the electricity that crackled between us. I think about his voice, his hands, the intensity in his eyes that made me feel like I was standing on the edge of a cliff.
But he doesn't have my number. There's no way he could have followed me back to New York, no way he could know these things about me.
Is there?
I gave him my name…my full name. Someone dedicated enoughcouldfind out my address for home and work, and thefirst edition book was a slam dunk of a gift. But the flowers, the bracelet, the takeout…
The flowers and bracelet could have been from a grateful client. The collector that I sold the painting to might have sent me flowers to match it. The bracelet could be from anyone—I sell paintings and find rare pieces for rich men and women all the time. But it feels like too strong of a coincidence that I would get these gifts from others so close to the one that I feelsureis from Alexander—the first edition Caravaggio book. That one can’t be from anyone else.
The first part of the week passes in a blur or work. I throw myself into preparing for the auction, reaching out to potential buyers. I meet friends for brunch on Saturday, and I smile and laugh and pretend everything is normal.
No other gift shows up for the rest of the week, and I start to think that maybe I overreacted. That maybe the bookwasa gift from Alexander, and when I didn’t try to find him to respond, he gave up. The other gifts were from clients. That’s all.
I actually start to breathe easier by Sunday night, until Monday morning rolls around.
I get to the gallery early to go over provenance documents for some pieces that clients are interested in purchasing from the upcoming auction, even before Claire arrives. And as I walk into my office, I see a small square box wrapped in matte gold paper on my desk, sitting on top of a stack of papers I left there Friday night.
My heart nearly stops. I toss my tote bag down in my chair and reach for it, my fingers trembling as if it’s a bomb. When I unwrap the paper and open the box, a pair of antique pearl drops with tiny diamond accents wink up at me. I stare at them, my analytical art brain already kicking into high gear. They’re Victorian era, if I had to guess, and worth a small fortune.They're exactly the kind of thing I would choose for myself, classic and elegant with just a hint of edge.
Claire hasn't arrived yet. The gallery was locked and the security system was armed when I got here. There's no way anyone could have gotten in without triggering the alarm.
Except someone did.
I pick up the earrings with shaking hands, feeling the weight of them, the cool smoothness of the pearls. I should call the police. I should call building security. I should dosomethingother than stand here, frozen, while my heart pounds against my ribs.
Instead, I put the earrings in my desk drawer and try to pretend I never saw them.
The week continues, and I feel like I’m slipping down a slow descent into paranoia. I start noticing things I never paid attention to before. I see a black SUV that I swear is parked across the street from the gallery on multiple days, its windows too dark to see inside. A car of that color and type is nothing strange in the city, but I can’t help but feel that it’s the same car, that someone inside is watching, waiting, learning about me.
I stop wearing earbuds during my runs. I vary my route, my timing, trying to be unpredictable. I check the locks on my windows obsessively and test the door to my apartment multiple times before I go to bed. By the end of my second week back in Manhattan I'm exhausted, running on caffeine and adrenaline and jumping at shadows.
Annie calls me over the weekend, and I almost tell her everything—almost confess that I think someone is stalking me, that I'm scared and confused and don't know what to do. But she sounds so happy, talking about the baby and how much better she's feeling, and I can't bring myself to burden her with my problems.
"You sound tired," she says, concern creeping into her voice. "Are you okay?"
"Just busy with the auction," I lie. I'm getting good at lying now, at pretending everything is fine. I think I’ve just about convinced Claire that it’s just work stress. "You know how it is."
"You need to take care of yourself, Mara. Don't work too hard."
I promise her I won't. We hang up, and I'm alone again with my fear.
There have been no more gifts after the earrings. By the following Thursday, I start to feel safer again, the earrings and bracelet and book all locked away in a drawer in my office, the flowers long died and thrown away, the takeout eaten. I start to feel like maybe I was overreacting again, and I’m glad that I didn’t burden Annie with any of it.
I work late Thursday evening, losing myself in the familiar comfort of art and the focus required to go over my spreadsheets for the month’s projections. By the time I lock up, it's after nine, and the streets are dark and mostly empty. I take a cab home just to be safe, walking quickly toward my building when the driver drops me off.
Nothing happens. No one follows me. No one jumps out of the shadows. I make it to my building safely, ride the elevator up to my floor, unlock my door and step inside, taking a long, relieved breath.
Everything looks normal. Exactly as I left it this morning.
Except… when I go into my bedroom, the window is open.
I stand in the doorway, staring at the window, at the curtains moving gently in the breeze. I know I closed that window this morning. I know I locked it. I've been obsessive about it all week, checking and double-checking, making sure everything is secure. I would never have left a window open anyway, or even opened one at all, it’s far too cold still for that.
But it's open now, and as I step into the room warily, I see that there's something on my pillow.
