Page 96 of Xavier

Twenty-four

Him

She feels like a rag-doll in my arms as I lead her down the hallway to her apartment. I know this building, I pass it almost every day on the way to work. And here she’s been all this time. I guess I wasn’t as alert as I thought I’d been. I thought I’d committed to memory every face that I’d seen in Manhattan these last twelve years, and in ways I have. I see people in restaurants I remember passing in a Barnes and Noble three years ago. I see women with new husbands, children turn into adults, widows with old flames all the time. I see them all. But I never saw her.

Maybe it was fate.

We come to a stop outside her apartment, and she hands me the key, her face almost white from bloodlessness. I don’t know what my mother said exactly, but it shocked the very life out of her.

I slide the key into the lock, but there’s no need. It’s not locked.

“Malynda, did you lock the door last time you left?”

She lifts her head off my shoulder. “Yes, of course. I always do. Why?” The hackles on the back of my neck spring to life. Something’s not right.

“Wait here,” I say, and she nods, confused.

I push the door open.

To complete and utter destruction.

“Oh my god!” she gasps behind me, her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide, scared.

The apartment is completely trashed. A bookcase in the foyer as you walk into her home is lying on the ground, its contents scattered all over the floor. Furniture is turned over, drawers pulled out and emptied. Broken glass and ornaments shattered and strewn everywhere.

Whatever they were looking for, they were very thorough. My hand is on my phone ready to call the police, but I need to make sure she’s okay first.

“Oh my god,” she gasps again. “What happened..?” She steps in behind me, her hand clutching at my arm, looking around at the wreckage of her home. “I’ve been robbed?”

“I… think so. Is anything missing?” I say, spotting the TV knocked onto the ground, its screen smashed. TVs aren’t the commodity they used to be, and it might be hard to carry one out of here without being noticed.

“I… I can’t even tell.”

She stumbles deeper into the apartment and I follow her. It's a large apartment for Manhattan. Not as large as mine, but decent. We pass something that looks like a guest room and then into a master suite. Her bedroom. This room hasn't fared well either. It looks like the entire contents of her closet have been dragged onto the bed and floor of her bedroom. The curtains pulled from their rods and left piled on the floor. She points to the nightstand and her jewelry box is open and empty.

“I… I had a lot of jewelry in there,” she says, and then sobs. “They took my grandmother’s ring.”

I feel something crack in my heart. I know how much she loved that ring. She’s been wearing it since I met her. “I so sorry, sweetheart. So your jewelry is gone, anything else?”

She just shakes her head, her mouth gaping open, trying to take everything in.

“I… I don’t know. I can’t tell,” her voice catches on her throat.

“It’s okay, just sit down. I’m going to call the police. Don’t worry, we’ll get to the bottom of this, okay?”

She just nods and I clear a spot for her to sit on the side of her bed, trying to breathe through the fury. Who the fuck would do this? Mess with her? They must have been watching for some time, knowing that she wasn't spending the night here last night. I'm almost relieved. Relieved that she had been with me and not here. Who knows what might have happened to her if she had been here.

The dial tone barely loops once before I hear her choke on a scream. I turn and see her throw something clear across the room, her face blazing red, her eyes wide, terrified. I hang up the phone and reach out to her,

“What’s wrong? What is it?”

She just shakes her head, her eyes growing wilder and wilder.

“Malynda!” I yell, shaking her.

It only momentarily shocks her out of her trance and she points to the object laying on the floor.

Running over, I pick it up off the ground.

It's a ballet shoe. Worn. I turn it over and recognize the handwriting on the sole. It says, "Malynda …" Her name. And attached to the ribbon is a note.

“I’m back. Did you miss me?” And it’s signed “DR.”

What does this mean?

“Malynda.” I read off the slipper again. And something clicks in my brain.

I sit down next to her, pulling her into my arms, squeezing her hand and giving her a moment to breathe. When her breath is steady, I tell her once and for all.

“I think it’s time you told me what happened twelve years ago.”