It’s close to eleven when my phone rings. I pounce on it, scared it will wake Ruby. The walls are hollow. Sound carries.
“Hello?”
Silence.
I’m in the bathroom, wringing out a bra I hand-washed in the basin. My apartment has no washer or dryer. To save on trips to the laundromat, I wash small things by hand. I stick the bra’s shoulder strap around a coat hanger and hook that onto the two other coat hangers suspended off the shower-curtain rail.
“Hello?” I say again. The line’s staticky, which makes me think it’s a long-distance call. I shut the lid and sit on the toilet.
I imagine Trevor on the other end of the line, in some crappy Midwestern motel, searching for the words to say—what? That he misses me? That he wants to try again? That he’s getting remarried?
Or maybe it’s some police officer or hospital official who’s found my contact information in the system, unaware we’re no longer together. Maybe Trev’s luck has run out. He’s been gored by a bull or thrown off and trampled. Shot in a bar brawl. Stabbed by an incensed girlfriend. My chest shrink-wraps in.
I shake myself. None of this is my problem. I don’t miss Trevor. I’m just addicted to missing someone. It feels real, but it’s just misfiring neurons, chemicals in my brain. I need to move past my fucked-up childhood.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
The silence is thick. It’s not Trevor. I should hang up.
I’m removing the phone from my ear when a man’s voice growls, “You’re full of shit, bitch. Keep your fucking mouth shut.”
I freeze. The line clicks.
I sit on the toilet, unmoving. I recognized Ryan Reeve’s voice. And the way he snarled the word bitch. How did he get my number? Maybe he charmed that silly old cow of a school secretary. I’ve gone rigid.
Above me, something clomps. I jump. If he could track down my number, he could definitely find my address. I should call the police, but I can’t. My heartbeat’s gone ballistic.
There’s another thud overhead, and another. It’s just my old landlady, Mrs. Simpson, in her heavy orthopedic shoes. Every night, when I’m ready for bed, the damn woman starts clomping like a tap-dancing Dutchman.
The toilet seat’s cold. I try to breathe deeply. Drops of water fall off the clothes I’ve washed and onto the tiles.
I put my head in my hand and recall Ryan’s snarl. That flash of recognition when I confronted him out back of Stanton House. I wonder if he recognized me from the hit-and-run. Or from Dana’s? You’re full of shit. Why would he say that?
I recall running that stop sign. If only I hadn’t . . . It would never have happened if not for Dana. I feel cold and shaky.
When there’s a heavy thump above, my chin jerks up. Some big object’s being dragged. I stare at the ceiling. Mrs. Simpson must have knocked something over. The damn woman’s nocturnal.
She clomps off. I’m still sitting on the toilet, gripping my phone. I check Recent Calls, but the number’s withheld.
I get up and go into the kitchen. There’s another weird noise overhead. It sounds like Mrs. Simpson’s blender.
I consider sleeping with Ruby but don’t. I must stay calm. I’m overreacting.
Despite my fatigue, I can’t sleep. Every small sound—the gurgle of pipes, the slam of a neighbor’s car door—signals an intruder. My forehead throbs with tiredness, yet my thoughts won’t stop churning.
I turn the clock radio away so I can’t see how late it’s getting. Or how early. Even Mrs. Simpson’s gone quiet. No cars are passing.
When I finally fall sleep, it’s lightly. Thoughts of Ryan Reeve break in. That vicious voice on the phone. His laser-like gaze out back of Stanton House. He’s a drug dealer and a killer. Utterly immoral. A man without limits, who I fear is out to get me.