Okay, so it’s only just under fifty, but I check them all anyway. Two are emails—one, a final notice of termination and abandonment of employment from the temp agency for not contacting them for so long. I’d guessed that. Another is a recruitment email from a job I applied for at Hitchcock’s Publishing. Refraining from screaming in surprise and excitement, I bite my lower lip and save it, making a mental note to get backto them after I finish going through the rest.
A couple of the voicemails are from telemarketers—all of which I delete after the first two seconds of their message. There are nineteen missed calls from Michelle and a few from a coworker at the agency—likely wanting to know where I’ve gone.
“Never-never land, girl. I’ve gone to never-never land,” I murmur to myself as I finally click away from the phone calls and see the dozens of texts from Michelle.
They start off as one would expect. Confusion. Concern. Worry. Then they slowly shift to frustration and anger. Back to concern. The last one stabs a dagger into my chest.
Michelle:Please, Daisy. I haven’t heard from you in days, and all of your stuff is gone. I’m worried. Just let me know you’re okay.
I am such a shit friend.
Guilt weighs down my shoulders, making me slump forward as I read her last text. I should’ve gotten over my anxiety and fear and just called her that first night, if only to let her know that I was alive even if I couldn’t warn her about the moving guys. She’s got to be freaked the hell out, and here I am, sitting pretty in a penthouse playing wife. I’ve never been one of those girls who drops their friends for whatever flavor of boyfriend they’re into at any given time. I wonder if she thinks I’ve been replaced by an alien replica—if our roles were reversed, I would.
Even now as I stare down at my screen with a familiar and annoying burning behind my eyes, I take the coward’s way out,and instead of calling her, I send a text.
Daisy:Hey, I’m okay. I’m so sorry for not telling you, but G made me move in with him. I’m living with him now, and it’s—
I stop typing, not sure how to explain my situation. I delete the text and restart, this time asking her to meet me at a local coffee shop that’s not a far walk from where Giulio’s penthouse is. Surely if I stay nearby, he won’t have a problem with me going out to meet Michelle.
Michelle’s response is instantaneous.
Michelle:Saturday. 8 a.m.
She’s pissed. She never responds so quickly or so shortly. Michelle is known for long, ranting voice clips and paragraph-long messages. That, plus the fact that she’s demanding I be there at 8 a.m. when we both hate early mornings is enough to send fear skittering down my spine. Between an angry mobster and my best friend—I’d rather go against the man with a background in murder.
Fuck. Me.
Saturday comes far too fast, and I’m up early, mostly because I couldn’t sleep knowing I’m about to be reamed a new butthole by a rightfully furious best friend, but also because I need tosneak out from under Giulio’s nose.
Yeah, okay, so I was too scared he’d deny me the right to leave the house. He can be a bit scary.
Mean Daisy snorts, the sound all too familiar, as I finish getting dressed in a pair of ripped leggings and an over-long T-shirt with the phrase, “Dead Inside Still Alive” written above a skeleton with butterfly wings and a princess tiara on its bony skull. Hopefully seeing me wear her Christmas gift from last year will soften Michelle’s anger.
The T-shirt flops over my ass and I grab my handsewn purse and strap it on over my head, slipping my phone inside the cup of my bra before scowling at the clock on my nightstand that reads half past 7 a.m. She better appreciate my effort to be prompt.
I peer into the hallway to make sure the coast is clear, glancing up one side of the long corridor before turning my gaze toward the opposite end that opens up into the living area. It takes approximately five minutes for me to creep up the hallway toward the main rooms. Each second feels like it lasts an eternity as I walk with my Converse in hand to not make any more noise than necessary. The sound of water running somewhere in the house echoes back to me.
Giulio taking a shower as he gets ready for the day? Probably.
When I’ve woken up during the week—usually after noon—he’s always been gone. My footsteps slow to a near crawl when I get to the opening of the living room. It’s blessedly empty, but my heart races inside my chest, pounding so loud I swear to God it’s trying to announce my great escape.
I’m in the living room, though, and no one is the wiser.Obstacle one: overcome. Now for obstacle two—the damn security system. I hurry across the floor, stepping up onto the platform that hosts the kitchen, and go immediately to the PIN pad hanging on the wall. The small digital screen reads “armed.”
“Fuck.” The curse leaves me with a rush of air. I know this kind of system; I’ve worked in houses—as a temporary maid or caterer—that have them all the time. I’ve only got one chance to disarm it and get out. If I give it the wrong PIN code, it’ll go off.
I close my eyes and suck in a long, slow breath. When I reopen them with my following exhale, I step up to the PIN pad and flick down the cover. I watched Giulio put the code in to arm it for just this reason last night. I remember that code. My primary concern now is wondering if there’s a different code to arm versus disarming the system.
Minutes are ticking. I gotta go if I want to meet Michelle on time. With sweaty palms, I lift a hand and quickly type in the code I watched Giulio use and then squeeze my eyes shut, praying it works. A light beeping noise is my response, and my eyes pop open to see the digital screen go from “armed” to “disarmed.”
“Ha!” I clamp a hand over my mouth as the excited sound escapes. I freeze, but no harsh, pounding footsteps come up the hall. Then, because I can’t help it, I do a little jig in front of the PIN pad to celebrate my success.
The front door hovers in my periphery, and I stride toward it, a pep in my step that I haven’t felt in ages. Maybe I’m a secret genius. Maybe I have a calling as a jewel thief. I make quickwork of the lock and yank the door open, sprinting into the hall and turning toward the elevators as it snicks shut behind me.
Even if I am a magical escape artist, there’s no reason to stand around and chance getting caught. I hoof it to the elevator, pushing the button ten billion times before the chime above the doors rings and they slide open to reveal the empty interior. Inside, I hit the button for the lobby, but it isn’t until I walk past the doorman—dressed in a fine uniform as he reaches for the door handle and holds the front door of the building wide for me—that I realize I’ve made it.
Fresh morning air slaps me in the face, a jolt of energy following in its path. I got away, and I didn’t have to fight with Giulio to let me go. After all, it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
I practically bounce down the street toward the coffeehouse that we agreed to meet at.
