“Good morning!” Bakari poked his head around the side of the tent, and I smiled with relief. “It’s time for breakfast and the briefing,” he said, or commanded—it was a little more of a command. That was his way, I was learning, warm but firm. “You can bring your coffee.”
“Oh, I didn’t…Can I have a minute? I’m not fully dressed.”
Bakari smiled in an enigmatic way that seemed affectionate or patronizing or impatient—perhaps all three at once. “Yes, you can have one minute. But only one. We will all be waiting in the dining tent.”
“You don’t need to wait. I’m not very hungry.”
“We must always eat, hungry or not hungry. It is the way to avoid altitude sickness. And we move together always, as one.” He smiled again. “We will wait, and you will move quickly.”
***
The East Village police precinct is literally freezing, the air-conditioning turned up far too high. It’s packed with people, too. And so I’ve been leaning against a small square of cold, bare wall for two hours, waiting for someone to find time to talk to me. As soon as I indicated a “domestic issue,” the clerk in the intake room told me I’d have to wait for a uniformed officer. I’ve considered leaving a bunch of times. Going to the police seems like an overreaction now. But I’m working hard to honor my original feeling. To honor that I have feelings at all. I glance down at the filthy floor, see something that looks like it could be dried drops of blood.
A flash of memory—and of pain. My bare knees cracking against the cold tile when he flipped me over and shoved me down. How I’d thought, in a moment of shock, that a house as nice as Noah’s parents’ should have warmer, softer floors.
Noah grew up in a Georgetown mansion, his father a partner at some law firm, Sinclair something, which must have been a big deal, the way Noah said the name. His mother was rich by profession. Noah wasn’t out yet with his family, so he’d asked me to come stay for the holidays, standing in as his girlfriend to keep his mother from foisting every “respectable single young lady” in his direction. With my own mom scheduled to be working most of the break back home in Leadville, it was an invitation I couldn’t pass up.
The Kings’ black-tie holiday party was like nothing I could have even imagined growing up. It was filled with successful, sophisticated people, professionally designed Christmas decorations, and servers passing endless fizzy cocktails and canapés (I was pretty sure that’s what they were called). I was seventeen and drunk within seconds. But ecstatic. I could have just walked around looking at the fancy people all night and that would have been bliss. I was Cinderella finally invited to the ball.
But then I met eyes with him. Standing alone. Leaning back against the wall, chin slightly lifted. Staring at me like he’d just spied a miracle.
Immediately I felt special, precious. Singled out. He was hot, too, sharp cheekbones, piercing eyes. A halo of certainty that felt like magic even from all the way across the room.
“You look lost,” he said in my ear sometime later. I was standing at the bar fearful someone—like maybe Noah’s parents—would boot underage me for ordering a drink.
When I turned and our eyes met, I had to grip the edge of the bar to keep upright. I’d been cursing myself for the past hour for losing sight of him.
“Oh, no.” I laughed nervously. “Just trying to…” And then I gestured at the bar as if I’d never ordered a drink for myself. At my age, this wasn’t far from the truth.
He smiled with half his mouth. And I felt for a perfect, endless moment like I was the only person at the party. The only person in the world.
“The lady will have a glass of white wine,” he said to the bartender—which seemed wildly sophisticated at the time rather than cheesy—then turned back to me. “And I’ll have a whiskey.”
Back at the police station, a pretty, petite brunette in a well-fitting uniform finally walks into the waiting room. She brushes her short hair out of her huge dark eyes. Looking at her, I feel confident she will understand what it is like to be stalked. “Ms. Callahan!” she calls, looking around.
“Yes, hi, thanks, um, that’s me,” I stutter, waving weakly.
—
She leads the way to her desk, motioning brusquely for me to sit in the chair alongside it. She doesn’t seem like a woman who likes her time wasted.
“What can I help you with?” She reaches for a pen and flips open a pad. “The one-two-four room said this is some kind of harassment?”
I nod as my cheeks flush. Shame. I still feel that, don’t I? Ashamed about being here or for what happened all those years ago, I’m not sure. “Someone is harassing me.”
“Uh-huh.” She takes notes but seems unimpressed. Fairenough. People are getting stabbed and shot and assaulted in New York City even as we speak. “How?”
“How?”
“They showing up at your place of work, your home? They threatening physical violence?”
“Oh, well, no. He, um, sent a text. The threat is implied.” I pause. This sounds silly now, ridiculous, even. I dig out my phone. “You can look at the messages if you want.”
She takes my phone, frowning as she scrolls through the messages. Taps on the photo.
“This picture?”
“He’s married. We haven’t— Anyway, it seems like this person is threatening to say that we’re having an affair.”
