Pouring another, I stare at the kitchen.How can a room look the same, but feel so different in the span of a day?No longer willing to think about it, I rush out of the room and into my office.
The day passes in a blur, despite my nerves causing me to jump at every sound.Living in an older house that's in serious need of maintenance work, sounds are plentiful.When five o’clock rolls around, I practically dive out of my chair.
* * *
The tension in my shoulders uncoils when I approach the front door of Emily's apartment building.The six story building at 281 Field Street is situated at the center of the block just a few miles from the heart of the city.Its brick exterior is almost identical to the row of buildings surrounding it.
When she first moved here after college, Emily had said she chose the location for two reasons: one being its close proximity to the best restaurants and bars in the city, and the second being its nearness to the Metro Station on Brown Street.That particular station connects to one directly in front of the biggest newspaper in the city.
Even before we left college, she was determined to work at the City Herald.In the years since, she's worked her way up from mailroom worker, to newsroom assistant, to journalist.But in true Emily fashion, she isn't done yet.She won't be satisfied until she's the lead investigative journalist for the entire paper.
Thinking about how far she's come, my lips pull into a smile that crinkles my eyes.I fidget with my bags, hiking the straps of my duffel and purse up onto my shoulder to free my arms before pressing my finger to the buzzer for apartment 306.I pull my scarf up over my chin to fight off the cold breeze that tumbles through the narrow street.
A loud buzz and clank sounds when the door unlocks.As I rush into the lobby, I let out a satisfied sigh at the welcomed surge of warm air that envelops my body.My body warms as I trek up the three flights of stairs to Emily's door.I pause at the top of the second staircase, my thighs aching, reminding me of how many yoga classes I've skipped recently.I'd like to think that having a crazy, murderous stalker is a good excuse to skip a workout, but my body clearly disagrees.
By the time I reach Emily's door, I'm huffing out breaths like I've just sprinted a quarter mile.I smack the heel of my palm against the door while reminding myself to do more cardio.My frustrated thoughts fall away when the door swings open to reveal the beaming smile on my best friend's face.
“Bestie,” Emily sings out, her high pitched voice echoing through the narrow hallway.
Despite everything that's happened recently, and even with the lingering fear clawing inside me, I grin.Shuffling inside, I push the door closed behind me.It feels like an ironclad barrier separating me from the worst of the world—from him.My bags fall to the floor with a thunk as Emily pulls me into a tight hug.Her body presses against me, her warmth settling straight into my bones.
She releases me from her arms and stares at me, her forehead creased with worry.Hoping to avoid the questions swimming in her eyes, I scurry away and drop myself onto the couch with a heavy sigh.Her eyes are glued to my face as I sink into the soft fabric.
My eyes wander, roaming over Emily's apartment.It's small, as most are in this city, but lovingly maintained and impeccably decorated.Abstract paintings in tan, blue, and gold accent the white walls of the main room.A round, glass-topped coffee table with gold legs sits at its center, surrounded by the cream-colored couch and matching chair.
Off of the main room are two doors that lead to the bedroom and bathroom.Each room is outfitted with its own color scheme.Deep blue and aqua in the bathroom, and yellow and orange in the bedroom.Nestled in a corner by the front door is a narrow kitchen.Its stark white tiles are offset by red dishes and appliances displayed on open wood shelving.
When my life calms down, I should ask Emily to help redecorate my house.Can new decor make my home feel safe again?Can it push away bad memories?Is a girl with a chic home less likely to be followed by nightmares?
“So,” Emily's voice pulls me out of my thoughts, “are you going to tell me why you look like death warmed over, or do I need to pry it out of you?”
The sound that escapes me is something between a heavy sigh and a groan.Hoping it will buy me some time to think of an answer that will satisfy a budding investigative journalist without totally freaking her out, I respond, “Pizza first, questions after.”
She rolls her eyes as I pull out my phone to place our usual order of ham and pineapple pizza.At the sound of clinking glasses, my eyes shift upward to find Emily making cocktails in the kitchen.Knowing that there's no way she's going to wait until the pizza arrives, I have until the drinks are ready to get my story straight.
My teeth dig into my bottom lip as I try to organize the jumble of thoughts in my head.I want to tell her everything, to drop the crushing weight of this burden.She would help me carry it if I let her.
The sense of relief I felt when I told James was palpable.Oh, God.James.My stomach clenches.Bile rises in my throat as my mind replays the images of his severed hand, his blood on my kitchen floor.When I look at Emily in her own kitchen, I blink back tears.My fingers dig into the arm of the couch as visions of her mangled body flash behind my eyes.
Just as the thoughts come to me, I know instantly that I can't tell her.I may be responsible for James’ death, but I won't be responsible for hers.I press my hand to my mouth to block a sob that threatens to let loose.She can't get hurt because of this.
“Ava,” Emily says as she places two cocktails down on the coffee table, “what's going on?”
My heart is weighted with guilt at the idea of lying to my best friend, but there's no other way to keep her safe.What’s that thing people say about lies?The most believable lies are based in truth?
“There was this really nice guy in my high school, James,” I explain.“I saw him recently and we were going to have a coffee date.”
Emily's face contorts in confusion.“This doesn't sound like a bad thing, but your face says otherwise.”
I release a long breath before continuing, “He died yesterday.”
Emily's eyes widen in understanding.The couch cushions shift as she sits beside me.Her hand grasps mine and squeezes gently.
“What happened?”she asks quietly.
“He was a deputy with the local sheriff's department.He died…well, just doing his job.”
My mouth dries as the partial truth rolls off my tongue.I grab one of the fruity cocktails from the table and take a long sip.
