In theory, it made sense.
But when I reached the entrance to the building and I saw the darkened street just beyond, I froze.
The anger dissolved.
And in its place, fear surged.
No, not just fear. Terror.
I stood there, my hand on the door handle, unable to move.
My pulse started racing. Cold sweat broke out all across my body. My chest went tight and my head went all swimmy. I could feel a panic attack nudging at me, only seconds away.
Go,the logical voice insisted.Get a cab, have it take you to the train station, the airport, a hotel, anywhere but here. You’re smart. You’re a PI. Of all people, you should know how to hide.
But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t make myself open the door. All I could do was stand there, gripped with fear, hating myself for my cowardice.
I’ve never felt that stuck before. Like someone else had taken over my body. Like no matter what I told my muscles to do, they wouldn’t obey.
I’m not sure how long I stood there before I finally gave up.
As soon as I informed my body it wasn’t going outside, my muscles unlocked. And like a drunken puppet with half itsstrings cut, I lurched away from the door and over to the little sitting area in the corner of the lobby, where I’ve been ever since.
I can feel the guy behind the reception desk watching me, but I’ve been intentionally avoiding his gaze. Instead, I’ve been studying the painting on the wall across from me, staring at it for so long the colors blur and the figures turn into amorphous blobs.
Maybe he’ll think I’m an art enthusiast, I reason. He won’t think I’m a would-be thief plotting my next heist. He’ll just think I really,reallylike this painting of a couple walking side by side in the rain.
I don’t. Honestly, it just makes me sad. And I keep wondering why the artist didn’t give the couple an umbrella. Was it a metaphor? Did the artist want to send a message that even when you’re in a relationship, you’re not fully protected? Or that when you’re in love, the metaphorical rain doesn’t bother you?
I sigh at the painting. Am I seriously analyzing the symbolism of it when I have much bigger concerns to worry about? Like where I’m going to go if I ever gather up the courage to actually leave?
That’s a great question, and one I don’t have the answer to yet.
My apartment in Hoboken is out. So is Brian’s place in Florida and my aunt’s in Arizona. Yes, I know they’re both thousands of miles from here and the chances of someone following me there are slim.
But not impossible. And that’s enough to make up my mind.
So where does that leave me? Do I get a hotel somewhere in the city, maybe a rundown, pay-by-the-hour place that takes cash and doesn’t require ID? And then spend the next however many days being terrified out of my mind every time someone walks by the door?
Do I head upstate, possibly to one of the tiny towns in the Adirondacks, hoping I can find a little rental cabin in the woods where no one will find me?
A shudder grabs hold of me at the thought of it—sitting alone in a cabin at night like I’m in the scene of a classic horror movie, the murderer sneaking undetected through the woods, moving closer and closer…
My pulse skitters. The bands wrapped around my chest wrenches tighter.
Okay. No cabin in the woods.
So where does that leave me?
Maybe I should try leaving again. Just… do it. Push the door open and hurry onto the sidewalk, take a cab to the bus station, pick the first available bus, and just go.
I rise halfway from my chair before my muscles lock up again.
Frustrated tears sting my eyes.
I’m mad at Nico. But I’m mad at myself, too.
