When I get to my building, I park illegally and run in. The elevator is taking too long, so I run up the four floors and storm into my condo. I run for my burner phone, which I’d stuck in the kitchen drawer, and when I turn around, I see a slip of paper that someone has slipped under the door. My front door is still open, and it’s sitting there on the floor. I can’t. I can’t be here. I run the flight of stairs down to Marty’s place. Will would never know to look for me there, and I can make the calls I need to.
As soon as I reach the fourth floor, I look for his unit, 429. I haven’t been there before, so it takes me a minute to find it. As soon as I do, I see him, with Figgy on a leash, rounding the turn to go down the stairs, probably to take the dog out. I call out, but he doesn’t hear. I assume he just took Figgy out for a quick bathroom break, because he’s left his door open a crack. I know I shouldn’t, but I push it open to wait inside. I feel vulnerable and completely freaked out, and I know he won’t mind.
I wonder if Will could have seen me leave in time to follow me. I click Marty’s door shut and stare at the back of it a moment, hoping he returns soon. I wonder how I let my guard down like this. Almost a year without touch, without dry eyes or a clear mind, and he so quickly made me remember what companionship felt like—true, easy love, or something resembling it, I was starting to think—something that would always be there, like the boxes of childhood keepsakes stacked in the garage, not acknowledged every day, but beloved and essential. I’m a fool, I think.
After a few moments, I turn around and look at Marty’s incredibly neat and tidy apartment. Very empty and bachelor-looking, nothing like Will’s. There is computer and video equipment everywhere, but neatly shelved. The only unkempt part of his place is the kitchen table. I step in and take a closer look, and I don’t believe what I see.
A silent scream rises in my throat. I don’t understand what I’m looking at, but I can’t turn away. It doesn’t make sense what I’m seeing.
There are dozens of photos of me. For a split second, I think maybe it’s from his research, looking up people for me, something related, but no.
There are shots of me, not from my website or social media, but from inside my condo, or at a café. Just like Carter described. I see pages of my daily schedule in a stack with dates. His kitchen table is covered with me. Images of my face are pinned up on the wall next to the table. I walk up to it, horrified, and I see something that makes my knees buckle. It’s Liam’s daily schedule and details about the book signing. And a Polaroid photo of a woman gagged and bound. Who is she?
I just saw my book with the cutout pages and a photo at Will’s. What’s happening? I don’t know what’s happening! I’m dizzy. I look around the room, trying to steady myself. I know that I felt like the photo seemed real and not a website porn thing, but somehow my gut told me it was staged like a photo shoot, made carefully to scare someone, but now I know that’s not what it is. This woman is probably dead. I’m going to be next.
I’m playing each possible scenario over and over. He didn’t know who I was until I moved in. It makes no sense. He’s not a disgruntled restaurant owner who got a bad review like Hilly. He’s not a jealous lover like Cal. He definitely isn’t an angry parent who wants revenge. Then what? What did he want with me?
And in the midst of my reeling and dizzying thoughts, I see photos of a woman I recognize. That’s it. That’s the missing piece. I study her face, and I remember my conversations with her. Marty is in the photo. Suddenly all of this makes sense; it all becomes crystal clear. I was so wrong, and I know I need to run before it’s too late.
I turn to run back out the door, but it clicks and locks, and Marty Nash stands in front of it with a terrifying smile on his face.
“You look surprised,” he says.