Let her know what I was, because she needed to understand what it would cost her to have a man like me hovering in her orbit.
I switched views again to the third-floor hallway.
Still clear.
I swiped through the camera feeds for the front and back entrances. There was nothing unusual.
Another swipe, and I was back to Lyla, who was still sitting on the floor and leaning against the door. She wasn’t crying, just muttering to herself and holding onto her knees for dear life.
When I checked the building’s front entrance camera again, I saw my guy touch his earpiece, say something, and then head out the door. He wouldn’t go far, but he’d ensure the area was secure and update the men inside working on cleanup. Seconds later, red-and-blue lights flashed just outside the vestibule windows.
“Too fucking soon!” I cursed under my breath. Rory glanced at me but said nothing.
Two NYPD officers stopped at the apartment building’s call box.
They buzzed in, waited a beat, and then entered.
When they started moving up the stairs, I switched to the view of the third-floor hallway. They passed Epstein’s apartment without pausing and headed straight for the fourth floor.
I pulled up Lyla’s living-room feed again. She was still pacing, rubbing her forehead. Then came the knock on her door.
She paused but opened it.
Hmm. She’d actually called the police and was about to report what had happened.
The officers stepped just inside her door.
I zoomed in to see her better. Her eyes were wide as she began to speak.
With her hands flying and her voice shaking, she attempted to explain what had happened, describing how a man had attacked her in the stairwell, how he’d dragged her toward 3B.
Then she hesitated, her brows drawing tight before she launched into an explanation of how another man who’d been stalking her for days had come out of nowhere and intervened, how he had fought her attacker off and broken his neck.
Lyla wrung her hands and walked back and forth across the small living room while the officers pressed for more details—asking her how long the stalker had been following her, how well she knew him. She didn’t have much to offer but could only say that she’d sensed him tracking her and that he’d confronted her a couple of times but never laid a hand on her. Thankfully, she didn’t mention the coffee shop. Good.
The younger cop—a tall, clean-cut man—looked her over skeptically.
Asked if she had any injuries.
She said no.
He asked her why she’d been out so late on a Wednesday night in this neighborhood.
Lyla gulped and gave him a vague answer about getting off work late.
He pressed her with more questions, making her even more fidgety, then asked her if she’d been drinking or had taken any other substances.
Lyla shook her head and bit out a “No” in that bratty tone I’d come to recognize.
Then she tried to circle the conversation back to the attack and the murder she’d just witnessed.
The older officer rubbed a hand over his chin and suggested that Lyla show them where the altercation took place, indicating they might also pay the neighbor a visit.
Lyla’s face contorted in frustration as she rolled her eyes. She was probably realizing how bizarre her story sounded.
Once they got to the hallway outside of 3B, Lyla reenacted the encounter, putting on quite the performance. The policemen listened and looked around, but of course, there was nothing to see.
The younger officer rapped his knuckles on the door of Epstein’s apartment, and it swung open. He pulled a flashlight from his belt and shone it around.
