My hands are shaking so badly that it takes me three tries to get the key in the lock.
3
ELLIE
Inside, I lock the door. Deadbolt and chain.
Then I check the windows, even though I’m on the third floor and they don’t open more than four inches. After that, I make the rounds. The closet. The bathroom. Behind the shower curtain. Under the bed.
When it’s all clear, I lean against the wall in the bathroom.
Shit.
He knows about Maren. He knows about the café.
Is that because I was too careless? Or does he have someone actually watching me now? Like, all the time?
I sink to the bathroom floor. The cold of the tiles seeps through my jeans, but I’m not moving. I pull my knees to my chest and try to take a deep breath. But the air won’t come out right. It hits in short, shallow gulps that make my chest hitch and my vision blur.
I press my forehead to my knees and count.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
My throat aches where his hand was.
I reach up and touch it. The skin is tender. Tomorrow, there will be marks for sure. Faint, nothing anyone would noticeunless they knew where to search, but I’ll know. I’ll feel his fingerprints on my skin like a too-tight necklace I can’t take off.
Six. Seven. Eight.
I think about calling Maren and telling her about Landon. I should warn her. I should?—
Dread fills my gut.
No. I can’t.
If I tell her, she’ll call someone. The police. Her family. Landon will figure out what she knows, and then Maren becomes a target too, and I can’t — I won’t, I refuse to be the reason someone else gets pulled into this. I’ve already cost my father his life. I won’t cost Maren hers.
Nine. Ten.
The counting works. It always works, eventually. The panic recedes like a tide, not entirely gone, but pulled back to a place where I can function around it. I uncurl my fingers, unclench my jaw, and lift my head.
The apartment is quiet. Somewhere below me, a pipe clanks. Outside, a car passes with its music blaring, bass thudding through the walls. Then it fades, and there’s nothing again.
I pull Dad’s old flannel shirt from under my pillow — the one I took from his closet after he died. It stopped smelling like him years ago, but I still hold it to my face sometimes.
This time, I press it against the place on my throat where Landon’s hand was, as if my father’s ghost could cover the marks.
“I’m trying, Dad,” I whisper to the empty room. “I’m really trying.”
There’s a swell in my chest. But no tears fall. I can’t afford to cry. I have enough to get through in the next forty-eight hours. No use wasting energy on this.
Instead, I think about the interview.
Friday. Two o’clock. The estate. The little girl.
My stomach flips as I remember Landon’s new terms. Twenty percent increase on the minimum. At my old salary, that would have ruined me. At five times my old salary, it’s manageable.
If I get the job.
