"He told me to wear the black dress."
"Ooh, he's got opinions." Jen grins. "I like it. You need this. When's the last time you went on a date?"
Before Vincent died, maybe. Back when I believed in things like safety and trust and men who didn't disappear in the middle of the night because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"It's been a while," I admit.
"Then you definitely need this." She glances at the board. "We're clear for now. Why don't you head out a little early? Go home, do the whole shower-shave-outfit thing. I'll cover."
"You sure?"
"Positive. Go. Have fun. Tell me everything tomorrow."
I grab my bag from my locker, clock out, and head for the subway. It's early enough that I have plenty of time to get ready, to figure out what "the black dress" means and whether I want to be the kind of woman who does what a man tells her.
The subway platform is crowded with the early evening rush. I find a spot near the column and wait, that familiar crawling sensation starting at the base of my skull—the feeling of being watched.
I turn, scanning the crowd.
A businessman with a briefcase. A woman with a stroller. Some teenagers clustered near the far end. A guy in a dark coat standing too motionless, but when I look directly at him, he's staring at his phone.
The train arrives and I push inside with everyone else, finding a pole to grip near the doors. The feeling doesn't leave. It gets stronger as we hurtle through the tunnel toward Hell's Kitchen.
I climb the stairs to street level. My shoulders are tight, my jaw aching from clenching.
Wrong. This is wrong.
That same crawling sensation hits me the moment I step onto my floor, but it's stronger now, more immediate, like whatever's been circling has finally gotten close.
I stop in the hallway outside my door, keys in hand.
The door looks normal—closed, locked, the same as this morning.
But I feel it anyway.
The deadbolt slides back with its usual click. I push the door open and stand in the threshold, listening.
I hear the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the radiator clanking. I step inside and lock the door behind me out of habit. The apartment looks untouched. The coffee mug from thismorning sits in the sink. The throw blanket is draped over the back of the couch. A stack of mail sits on the counter where I left it.
Everything's fine.
Except it's not.
I walk through the living room slowly, trying to figure out what's bothering me. Nothing looks disturbed. Nothing's obviously wrong.
Then I see the window.
It's closed, but the curtain is pulled back differently than this morning. I always leave it slightly open on the left side because that's where the morning light comes in and I like how it hits the hardwood floors. Now it's open on the right side instead.
It could be nothing—the wind, maybe, if I'd left the window cracked.
But I didn't. It's January. It's freezing outside.
I check the lock. It's secure.
I'm being paranoid. Too many true crime podcasts, not enough sleep.
I turn away from the window and see it.
