“What phrase?”
“How about ‘Sam, I need help!’”
“That might work,” he acknowledged with a wry smile.
“Great,” she said, “you hang out over by the pool. Try not to look too detective-y. Once I’m inside, you can come back over and listen in. Sound good?”
“Please don’t take any risks, Jessie. I don’t need Ryan coming after me.”
“I promise,” she assured him. “Trust me, I’m not looking for trouble. I just want to get a handle on this guy so we can determine if he’s an active threat or just a racist asshole.”
Sam still looked apprehensive as he reluctantly wandered over to the pool and took a seat at a table near the chess players. Jessie turned her attention back to unit 106. She stepped up to the door and was about to knock when she paused.
She took a moment to undo her ponytail and let her hair fall to her shoulders. Then she grabbed the USC t-shirt she’d been stuck in all day and tucked it into her yoga pants so that the material was tight against her chest. She had forgotten to change into something more professional when she stopped by the house earlier, likely because of her concern for Ryan’s welfare. But now she was glad for the oversight.
Finally, she pulled her change purse out of her pocket, grabbed the lip liner inside and gave herself a generous helpingof the stuff. Satisfied that she looked tartily presentable, she knocked and assumed an expression of anxiety.
There was a long stretch of silence before a voice on the other side of the door roughly demanded, “what do you want?”
“Your help!” she pleaded.
“What are you talking about?”
“Please,” she said, channeling as much fear as she could muster. “I’m scared out here. You’ve got to help me.”
There was another short silence before she heard the door unlock and start to open.
This was it. She was on.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When the door opened, Jessie tried to hide her shock.
Thomas Bradford looked very little like the photos that Jamil and Beth had sent. On his website and in his driver’s license photo, he was borderline good-looking, with short blond hair and tan skin. But the man in front of her now only shared a passing resemblance to that guy.
The hair was still blond, but longer and mussed. He was paler in real life and his eyes were bloodshot and bleary. She guessed that he was either drunk or hungover. Though she knew that he was 34, he looked closer to 40. He was barefoot and wore blue jeans and a rugby shirt.
“What do you want, lady?” he demanded, sounding put out, although his eyes hungrily scanned her chest.
“Please,” she said urgently, “my car broke down across the street. I called the auto club but they said it would be another half hour before they could get here. While I was waiting, some guys walked by and started catcalling me. I got really nervous so I came over here, hoping someone might let me stay at their place until the tow truck shows up.”
“So why are you knocking onmydoor?”
“Because,” she said, her voice dropping to a loud whisper, “your name was the only one in the directory that, um, that sounded like mine.”
“What does that mean?” he asked, though she saw his eyes gleam at her words.
"You know," she said, leaning in conspiratorially, "not like Mexican."
“What, you don’t like Mexicans?”
“It’s not that exactly,” she said, pretending to be slightly embarrassed. “I would just prefer to wait with someone—more like me, you know?”
“Idoknow,” he said, actually looking above her neck now. Apparently he was impressed. “Come in.”
He opened the door wide enough for her to enter. She forced herself not to look back at Sam as she stepped inside. He closed the door behind her. For a second she thought he might try to lock it, but even this scumbag seemed to know that doing so might raise alarm bells.
“I’m Jessica,” she said extending her hand.
