Page 28 of Total Exposure

She’s annoyed with me.

And for some reason that makes me smile. I’m not playing games with her. I’ve been pretty straightforward, in fact. No, I haven’t told her everything. There are some stories that should never be told. But I’ve been sincere.

Now I don’t feel like being sincere. Because this whole thing is fucked up.

“I don’t think I can deal with the cameras,” I say. “Can’t the watcher take some of them down?”

“Evangeline,” Lucinda says, an even more annoyed edge to her words. “It’s called flooding for a reason. You need to be inundated with the stimulus that causes your fear in order to get over it.”

“I understand that. But I need some time—”

“You don’t have time. You’ve got a performance in two weeks and you haven’t even picked up a violin in over a decade. If I were you, I’d be a lot more worried about that than some silly cameras.”

“Well, you’re not me,” I snap. “I’m the only me there is. So you wouldn’t understand why this is important. And I don’t want to hear how many stupid degrees you have. You’re not me!”

“I’m going to hang up now,” she says. “And if you call again, it better be to quit.”

I open my mouth to say something, but I get three short beeps letting me know the call has ended.

“Bitch!” I yell to the ceiling. And then I throw the phone down on the floor and the screen shatters into a million little spiderwebs.

“Fuck,” I mutter, reaching over to pick it up. “Fuck.” It’s still working, miraculously, but it’s useless. Because even though I try to hit that little phone icon like seventy billion times, the screen is cracked so bad, the touch won’t register.

I guess I just have to quit then. I can’t stay here without a phone. What time is it? One in the afternoon? Maybe?

I think this through rationally. If I wait until dark I can probably… I don’t know. Walk home? Jesus, how far away am I from my building? It took about twenty minutes to get here. So miles away.

But if the reward at the end of the night was being back at home, locked up tight in my own apartment, I could do it.

I could call the concierge at my building at a… fuck. There are no phone booths these days. But if I could find a phone in the house… yes. There has to be a phone in this house. What kind of mansion has no landline, right? Surely there’s one tucked away in an office or something. I could call the building, ask the concierge to have a car come pick me up.

I’ll need the address. I don’t even have the address. I think I could manage a trip outside to get the street and house number though.

Yes.

That’s exactly what I’ll do. Wait until dark, go outside, get the address, come back in, find a phone, call the concierge, have him send a car, and go the fuck home.

There’s a few holes in that plan. Like, what if there’s no phone here? If that happens, and I wait until dark, then I really will have to walk. And I don’t even know this city. I haven’t been more than a few blocks from my apartment since I moved in. I could get lost. And end up having to ask a stranger for directions. I might be so lost, I don’t get home before dawn. Then I’ll be outside in the light, lost, and probably losing my mind.

I should check the house for a phone first. Then call the concierge immediately, tell him what I need and that car can come as soon as it gets dark.

Perfect.

I stand up and straighten myself out—I’m still wearing my winter coat, so my whole body is covered in sweat because this bathroom is small and the heat is blasting out of the vents. I take it off and say, “You can do this.”

So I reach for the doorknob and pull it open, confident I will enact this plan and be home soon. This whole nightmare behind me.

It’s quiet when I peek out. And empty. And not well lit because it’s cloudy outside. I creep forward along the hallway, back towards the front door, glancing all around me just trying to get my bearings, and find myself in a wide living area.

I search for a phone and in doing so, look up and gasp at the beauty on the ceiling. They’re coffered, but not in the typical box pattern. It’s rectangles and quarter-circles with an intricate hand-painted design that goes perfectly with the Italianate exterior.

Quite striking.

The room is long. Like a ballroom where people throw parties. There are several sitting areas, a floor-to-ceiling fireplace with woodwork as elaborate as the coffered ceiling, and gorgeous side tables with lamps. Several windows are tall arches with fancy trim. But others are rectangles and have long, overflowing sheer curtains that sweep along the inlaid hardwood floor.

I stand there admiring the entire presentation, picturing parties. Maybe even a string quartet over there in that corner by the arched windows. And the two credenzas on either side of the fireplace filled with food. Triple-tiered trays of sweets, and platters of finger food. And punch bowls. The kind that have ice cream floating in them, perhaps.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “Focus, Evangeline. That’s the dream of a child and you’re not a stupid child.”