“David, are you okay?” I know he’s probably upset about Liz. They are friends, after all.
I spot Brody between Standman C and D, smoking with his head down, so I guess the quad isn’t completely empty, after all. I throw him a wave, and he gives an uncertain one back. I wonder who he’s visiting when he comes here, or if he lives in one of the other buildings, and I make a note to ask him. He looks agitated, and he takes a step like he wants to speak to me, but right now I need to get to my dorm to charge my damned phone, before it shuts down mid-conversation and David really loses it.
“Bea, did you hear what happened Saturday? To Liz?”
“I just heard from a girl in my Shakespeare class. I can’t believe it.”
“Well I fucking can,” David growls, stopping me in my tracks. “I told you, Bea!” He says furiously. He’s angry with me, but I don’t understand why, or what he’s even talking about.
“W-what did you tell me?” I ask hesitantly.
David senses my reaction and sucks in a deep, calming breath. “Your fucking stalker. Brody,” he spits.
The phone shakes in my trembling hand and my throat tightens until it’s hard to breathe. My instinct is denial. Because Brody wouldn’t do that, would he?
But of course I don’t know what he would or wouldn’t do. I don’t really know him at all. All I know is some sob story about his mom—a story, I now realize, he could have easily made up.
“Where are you?” David asks frantically.
“In the quad,” I croak.
And then I remember he’s here—Brody—smoking in the alley between the two buildings, and I glance over my shoulder to where I’d seen him.
But he’s not there anymore. No, he’s marching toward me, in obvious agitation, and it takes too long for my brain to get the message to my feet to fucking move.
By the time I’m running toward the door to my building, fumbling for the security key fob, Brody has nearly caught up to me. Fear surges in my gut, constricting my chest until I’m gasping for each breath, my heart racing for its life.
Why is he chasing me? What does he want?
And why is he not locked up?
I try to rationalize and tell myself if he was going to do something to me, he’d have done it already. But then, he’s never had me alone, and right now there’s no one around. I peek back and find him only fifteen feet behind me, his features held in a glower that sends chills down my spine and churns my stomach with dread.
Tears blur my vision as I hold the fob up to the sensor, and I trip over my own feet, barely righting myself as the door buzzes open.
“Beth!” Brody calls.
But I’m through the door in a heartbeat, pulling it closed tightly behind me. Brody can’t get in here without a key fob, and even though rationally I know I’m safe, I don’t feel it with his frustrated glare shooting daggers at me through the wall of glass—all that separates us.
I suck in deep breaths, only vaguely aware of David’s muffled voice shouting frenziedly from the phone I dropped into my bag when I got my keys.
And then my heart stops beating as Brody slowly reaches into his pocket and retrieves his own key fob.
I know they’re all identical no matter where on campus you live, but as he holds it out toward the sensor, I stop breathing entirely. Idly I wonder why I’ve never considered that he might live in my own building, especially after seeing him around here those times. But by the time the door buzzes its access I’m already flying toward the elevator, slamming my palm on the call button.
In a rare bit of luck, the elevator is already idling in the lobby, and the doors slide open immediately. I throw myself into the car and desperately hit the button for the fourth floor, watching in horror as Brody’s long, purposeful strides cover the distance too quickly, still glaring at me with unfathomable intent.
Terror is a living, breathing thing, crushing my lungs and roiling my stomach. But God must be watching over me tonight, because the doors close just before Brody can get a hand between them, and he’s calling my name as I’m lifted to safety.
The stairs.
The realization strikes me in the gut. Four flights. But with his size and physique, it isn’t the obstacle it would be for someone like me.
Does he know what floor I live on? If he’s the stalker David accused him of being, then he probably does, and my heart skips dangerously as I struggle with the key to my room.
“Lani?” I call as my shaking fingers try to jam my key into the lock. But I’m greeted with silence, and I know she isn’t home.
The familiar loud creak of the oil-deprived stairwell door resonates down the hall, and I know it’s him without even turning to check. But I’m through my door and locking it before I even hear him call my name.
