“You said?—”
“You met him, didn’t you? He hired you? He saw us together and tracked you down?”
“Calm down, dude. I told you what happened.”
“Yes, but what happened makes no sense!” I grab her arm and push her against the wall of the elevator. “Tell me the truth, you little slut. How much did he pay you?”
To her credit, she doesn’t look scared. Just angry. But she’ll learn.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
My hand finds its way to her throat. It fits perfectly, a hook across her windpipe. How easy it would be to crush the life from this woman. How long would it take? A minute? Two?
“You’re a lying b?—”
Before I can finish my sentence, she brings her knee to my groin, and then jabs the long nails of her thumbs into my eyes. She misses, but I can feel them slice across the tops of my cheeks. She darts to the buttons and mashes them wildly. I’m on my side, thinking of nothing but the white heat of pain pulsing from my testicles, when the elevator dings open. Level four. She sprints out, and the door closes before I can stand.
So much formy pleasant evening.
When the door opens for my floor, I hobble out, feeling a mix of anger and shame. Not my best work. Idiotic, really. If Stella calls the police, I’ll be back on their radar. No longer a bumbling professor in mourning, but a potential predator. I’ll be a suspect again. I’m lucky that whores hate the police.
I’m not myself. How could this happen? He knows I’m here, and he’s messing with me.
Or maybe it isn’t him. Maybe it’s one of the graduate students from the university, an ex seeking her revenge. God knows there were enough. That’s what cooked me in the tenure review. Someunflattering stories came out, stories that had been hoarded by my enemies on the faculty.
But the dress, the poem. Why would they pick those? It’s too specific.
No, it must be Jesse. I need to move on. I’ll check out tomorrow and find another spot. I’ll have to leave my boat, but that’s OK. It might keep him off my scent for a while.
As I open my door, I’m struck with fatigue. The alcohol, the pain, the anxiety, it’s all too much. I just want to sleep. As I go inside, I kick off my shoes, then wince in pain. There’s something sharp on the floor. I flick on the light and swear under my breath.
Jesse’s lost his mind. Across the floor, he’s scattered pebbles, stones, and moss.
From the ocean, perhaps.
Or a river.
The mess ends at the table, where I see a knife, standing upright like a ship’s mast. As I get closer, I see it’s been driven through a hardback book. It's not one of mine, though it's a title I’m very familiar with.
The Last Date.
Grace’s novel.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
I stand frozen, letting myself feel the rush of fear. This man wants to scare me, and it’s working. I scan the corners of the room, the shape of the curtains, and hold my breath to hear any sounds from within the room.
But as expected, he’s not here. Jesse Youngman isn’t a fighter. He’s just a greasy nobody, a leech on my wife’s career, an occasional warm body and nothing more. A pathetic man. And he hasn’t actually done anything yet, which leads me to believe he doesn’t have the balls. A dress, a poem, a knife in my room—it’s all just derivative horror movie tactics.
Maybe that’s all he wants to do. Scare me. Make my life unbearable.
But I’m not a child. He’s going to find that out soon enough.
I put my shoes back on and make my way to reception. A pimply young man is staring, bored, into a monitor. I was hoping it might be a woman so I could flirt my way to information, but I have other tactics.
“Hello.”
He looks up, surprised, and gives an embarrassed smile. I see he’s not looking into a monitor but a cellphone. I recognize the character on the screen from a famous manosphere podcast,and feel my usual despair for the young men in this country. Illiterate, hopeless, addicted to screens. They know nothing of life. What I want to say—no, to scream—into their faces: You’ll soon be dead, without knowing a fraction of what life can be! Read a book! Talk to a woman! You have a soul! Feed it!
