The shadows lengthened outside the office as Emilie stared at the blank screen. After the Haven closed she sometimes took advantage of the quiet to get out her laptop and work at her other job: freelance investigative journalism for an online newspaper that wanted to be the next must-read. Almost no one beyond her tight circle of girlfriends understood she had dual roles, but each fed a separate part of who she was. Lately, though, the writing didn’t flow. It felt stymied, and she hoped by staying late she could knock out her next article.
Instead, she kept imagining Kaylene’s body covered by a sheet. Her body heaved onto a gurney. Her body thrust into the ambulance.
If only Kaylene had called her Friday rather than Saturday, so they could have gone to court immediately to file the protective order. Maybe then Kaylene would be alive. Emilie’s head knew she’d had no choice but to wait, but her heart felt as though she’d betrayed her client.
The online headlines screamed that the police believed Kaylene had killed one daughter and critically wounded the other. It felt like a waking nightmare. A grainy video that appeared on a couple of the local news station websites seemed to support the theory. One viewing, and Emilie felt her stomach rebel against the lunch she’d eaten as she’d scrambled to find any explanation for the tragedy.
She’d tried to watch it a second time, but she couldn’t face it.
Now she had to get this article written, but the words wouldn’t come. Even terrible words would be better than none—she could always edit it later.
But the blank screen taunted her . . . the cursor blinking her failure at the top. This was not normal. Had the Muses abandoned her? She leaned across the surface of the desk. The coolness of the pressed wood felt good since the air-conditioning automatically slowed after hours.
After a moment she groaned and pushed back upright. There was no point staying any longer. She should go home, where she could at least stare at the computer screen from her bed in comfy clothes and with bare feet. The ridiculous heels she wore pinched her toes. They were a torture device, but part of her uniform and the identity she presented to clients. She wanted to remind them that they could be both strong and feminine. They could know who they were and be confident. It was possible, if one portrayed the right image. It might be an illusion, but no one else had to know. Tell yourself that, Emilie, she thought, wondering where her ability to help people and her words had gone.
She shoved a couple files in her bag, grabbed her car keys, and turned off the lights. The hall was quiet, the faint hum of the refrigerator whispering in the darkness as she passed the kitchen. One of the safety lights buzzed, as annoying as the mosquitoes that swarmed along the Potomac.
She felt a vibration against her side, and she stopped to rummage through her bag. How was it that the pockets always deepened when she scrambled to find a ringing cell phone? When her fingers finally clasped it, the call was gone. All that remained was the screen showing a number she didn’t recognize. Oh well. If it was important they’d leave a message. She’d learned if they didn’t, she shouldn’t call back. No need to invite conversation with strangers who were usually telemarketers.
She jiggled the back door as she walked past. Good, it was already locked. Occasionally the cleaning crew forgot or, more likely, assumed the last staff member would lock it. So she always checked.
After that it was a quick lap through the rest of the warren of hallways to turn off lights. She loved the cheerful framed artwork, drawn by clients’ children, that brightened what would otherwise be a boring beige hall. Inexpensive interior decorating with a message. It had been the receptionist’s idea, when she first arrived, to soften the space and make it more inviting, but Johanna soon realized that a nonprofit’s funds didn’t allow for splurges. Then she landed on the idea of dollar-store frames filled with artwork children created. The result was charming and colorful. Then a donor noticed and wrote a check for larger pieces to be framed and displayed in the entry and conference rooms.
The result was unique and perfect.
Emilie stopped to examine an acrylic Kaylene’s daughter Kinley had painted. The girl had been delighted to wait for her mom in the children’s room, once she’d spotted the art supplies. When Emilie and Kaylene returned an hour later, Kinley hadn’t heard them come in. Tongue protruding past her teeth, she was concentrating on adding a thin brush of white along a tree trunk.
Tears filled Emilie’s eyes at the memory.
Kinley had glanced up. “That white edge is meant to add highlights.” The words sounded so self-assured coming from a nine-year-old.
Kaylene had grinned and tugged her daughter’s ponytail. “Guess all those art lessons are worth it. You’ve created something beautiful.” As she looked down at Kinley, the worry lines seemed to fade along her eyes, and the tightness at her mouth eased. “Kaydence is our math and science gal,” she’d told Emilie. “Kinley is our creative.”
“And you love me for it.” Kinley’s grin was big enough to split the sky.
There was nothing in the child’s face that day to indicate she feared her mom. Nothing at all.
Emilie walked out the front door, checking to make sure it locked behind her before proceeding down the sidewalk to the parking lot. She could have used the back door, but when she left after dusk she preferred to walk along the busy road before darting into the lot and unlocking her car at the last moment.
It might seem paranoid, but she didn’t want to give anyone an opportunity to sneak up on her or into her car because she’d carelessly unlocked it while she was fifty yards away. That wasn’t a good idea in her line of work.
She tried to peer into all corners of the parking lot before entering it. Even then it wasn’t until she was almost to her car that she saw a person in the shadows. She hurried to unlock the car and climb inside and then quickly relocked the doors from the inside. The person stepped forward as she turned the car on and put it in reverse. Then they—she couldn’t tell through the lens of the rearview mirror if it was a man or woman—let the weakened light from the street brush across their face, a safe move thanks to the hoodie that cloaked their features.
Emilie wanted to scream in frustration. Who was this person? Before she could do something, anything to fight back—but what? call the police? could they arrive in time?—the person was gone. Vanished in the shadows. If she could see who it was just once, she could do something to fix this and make them stop.
She pulled out of the parking lot and turned onto the street.
She needed to get home. Somewhere safe.
Someplace where she could pretend no one stalked her and made sure she knew it.