THE APARTMENT WAS as dark as my dreams. In them, something chased me. I thought it was Jasper. He was close. So close that I could hear the reptilian rasp of his breath in my ear. But when—in the dream—I turned, he wasn’t there.
When I startled awake, still on Kent’s couch, it took me a minute to get my bearings. When I realized where I was, my conversation with Kent came back. I recalled everything he’d said and everything I’d agreed to do. Or more accurately, not to do.
Sitting up, I rubbed my eyes and checked the time. I wanted to call Meg and make sure she was okay, but it was too late. Instead, I looked out the wall of windows at the silent park below. Although streetlamps burned among the towering trees, it felt so odd to be in a New York City apartment at night and not see a carpet of light out every window. In fact, the openness hung over me, an oppressive thickness that made my skin crawl. I felt eyes everywhere, boring into me. Threatening me.
I swear that, even in the moment, I knew how amazing Kent’s offer had been. More importantly, I was 100 percent certain he would deliver. And I had shook his hand in good faith. Yet something moved me, like a primal urge. It tugged at my very center of reason. I sidled along the long, curved couch and toward the front door, careful to avoid making even the slightest sound. I slipped into my shoes, then grabbed the handle. My entire body vibrated with nerves, but I turned it. The sound of the latch disengaging might as well have rocked the entire building. I froze for just a beat, then swung the door open and hurried out.
“Mr. Snyder, can I help you?”
I hadn’t seen Vincent standing outside the elevator. His question nearly ruptured my heart. He noticed when I jumped.
“Mr. Barre asked me to make sure no one came up or down tonight. I’m not supposed to—”
“Vincent,” I said, my tone as smooth as I could make it. “Thank God you’re out here. Something’s wrong with Kent. He got up. I heard him walking out from his bedroom. Then a bang! He just fell. I can’t get him up.”
Vincent didn’t hesitate. He rushed past me. Once he entered the apartment, I spun and ran to the elevator. I slammed my palm on the button, but nothing happened. Panicked, I looked over my shoulder at the door. I listened for Vincent. He would be back any second.
I pounded on the button again. Then I noticed the keys dangling from a lock beside the controls. I remembered Vincent using it downstairs to call the elevator. I turned it, and the doors swung silently open.
“Yes!”
“Mr. Snyder!”
Vincent’s voice came from inside, but he was closing the distance fast. Without hesitating, I yanked the keys out of the lock and jumped into the carriage. I knew he’d get in trouble with Kent. And I felt bad, truly, but I hit the lobby button just as Vincent entered the hallway. The doors closed as smoothly as they’d opened. For a second I saw a slash of his angry, red face. Then I was on my way down. And he was stuck on the top floor.
Though it might not seem like it, I had second thoughts. Kent had been so generous. Logically, his offer solved all my problems. Not to mention Vincent. He seemed like a real decent guy. I regretted that I might have caused him trouble.
So, what made me do it? What was making me run away from my own perfect ending? Was it Meg? Some outdated need to help the woman?
I wanted to think it was that. That my motives were altruistic. But it just didn’t ring true. It was far simpler than that. And more complicated. At the core, it was just the story. Though I could almost taste the danger I faced in the back of my throat, I couldn’t leave it unfinished. I needed that ending. Not for me, but for the film. Otherwise, it would be a gaping hole inside me forever.
So, I moved through the night, staying close to the sides, to the darker shadows. Just after three AM, the streets were quiet but not empty. Other people passed by, mostly with their heads down and their pace quick. As I turned onto Sixtieth, I found myself alone. With a quick glance behind me, I pulled out my phone and thought about calling Zora, but I texted instead, due to the hour.
Hey, I’m heading over to my apartment. I need to get all of our stuff out of there. Just in case. We need to talk. I sort of agreed to give up on this project tonight. But I don’t know if I can do that.
I typed more twice, erasing it each time. As I stared at the words that remained, I guess I knew. I wasn’t giving up. I wasn’t moving on. I don’t think I’d had that exact thought, not when I snuck out, not when I got Vincent in trouble. Not until that very second. It was like my body had just moved me away from the safety and security. Kent had been so right. Nothing but an addiction can take over your body like it did that night. Like an addict, though, I had stopped calling the shots. Instead, the story drove me, as maybe it should.
I hit send and slipped my phone back into my pocket. It was a long walk to Hell’s Kitchen and my apartment. I had no idea what I was going to do when I got there. What I would do with all the stuff. But I knew I wouldn’t leave it behind. I was all in. No matter what. That ending was out there. And suddenly, undoubtedly, I needed to find it.