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“Details? You mean about how I think I’m falling for him, but I can’t be sure if it’s real or whether it’s residual effects of this messed up life or death situation we’re in?”
“Don’t say that. You know better than anyone whether it’s real or not, Emily. You just have to learn to trust yourself.”
“Trust myself. Great, that sounds easy enough. Let’s see…yep, done. I trust myself. Gee, thanks, Heather. What would I do without you?”
“Bite me. I never said it would be easy, just that it should be done. You know I’m right.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. As always.”
“Glad you noticed. But look, I have to pick up Mark at the library in ten minutes. Same time tomorrow?”
“Yeah, sure, abandon me why don’t you?”
“Love you, too,” she says, and hangs up.
I put my phone down on the couch next to me, and feel sad and empty. For the time I had Heather on the line, it felt like she was there with me. Now I’m alone again. Alone and caged in.
Peter’s keys are still in the door where I left them after locking up this morning when he went to follow up on that lead. It’s like they’re calling out to me from across the room.
The security in this place is really good; he said so himself the night he first brought me here. And the whole reason I’m here at all is because Trevor has no idea about Peter.
Surely it wouldn’t hurt for me to step outside for a minute or two?
There’s a chill in the air despite the blinding afternoon sun glinting off the clouds. I take a second to get my bearings. I haven’t really explored the surroundings of Peter’s building since we only ever move through the space between his parking spot and the entrance.
To my left, there’s a cobbled pathway weaving through pale purple hydrangeas, all the way up to the end of the building. To my right is the same kind of path, but shorter. It stops at the high wrought-iron fence that gates in the apartment block. Adjacent to the fence are several mailboxes against the wall, black against the muted gray. I’ve brought along Peter’s mailbox key as part of my cover story for being outside and make a mental note to check the mail on my way back inside.
I opt to take the path to my left, obviously, because the parking lot is ahead and I’ve already seen enough of that.
There are only a few cars in their bays, given it’s the middle of a weekday. If I had to guess, I’d say one of them belongs to the brunette on Peter’s floor. She has a noisy toddler and is most likely a stay-at-home mom. I never learned her name, even though we’ve shared polite smiles on the elevator once or twice.
Come to think of it, Peter doesn’t seem to be friendly with any of his neighbors. I’ve never seen him take a call from someone that wasn’t a colleague, and when we go out, there are never any run-ins with people in his social circle.
The collateral damage of a life dedicated to work.
Instead of making me feel better, this walk is making me feel worse. It’s being in my head that’s the problem, I know. The location doesn’t matter at all. I miss people, and listening to things they have to say that have nothing to do with me.
I don’t understand how Peter has managed to do this for so long. Isolating himself, with nothing but work and sleep to fill his hours. So far, it’s the biggest difference between us. If this is real and I’m falling in love with him, what would our life together look like? Would he be open to, well, opening up? Or would I be the lonely wife, explaining to guests at every event why her husband couldn’t make it?
I stop walking a few feet from the edge of the path and turn to head back inside. Sight-seeing around the apartment complex has suddenly dropped to the bottom of my priority list. I’m going to call Heather back and set up a lunch date for tomorrow. And maybe, if I sell it just right, Peter will agree to join.
As I pull open the large door to the entrance hall, the black mailboxes catch my eye. For a second, I consider abandoning my cover story. I don’t think Peter would fall for it anyway. He’d just tell me I should have left the mail for him to collect.
But I’m tired of being told what to do.
When I get to the mailbox, my internal battle seems to have been for nothing because it’s empty except for one envelope. Rolling my eyes, I grab it and quickly lock up the mailbox again before dashing inside. These past few days of social extraction have clearly increased my mind’s ability to create unnecessary drama. Heather would be proud.
I pass the elevator, choosing the stairs instead. It feels good to get my heart pumping and work up a sweat, even if it is a small one. This staircase dash will more than justify my popcorn with a side of Netflix later. I smile to myself as I push through the door that opens onto Peter’s floor. It’s nice how some things have stayed the same at least.
Back inside, I replace Peter’s mailbox key, toss the envelope on the kitchen counter, and grab a water from the fridge. I’m about to go through to the living room to get my phone when my eye catches something.
That familiar knot of anxiety starts up in my stomach as I stand there, feet planted on the floor, looking at the brown envelope on Peter’s kitchen counter. The envelope with my name scrawled across it in black marker.
I should probably have called Peter first thing, but before any rational thought can catch up with my actions, I’m on the bed, my shaky hands plugging the unmarked USB into Peter’s laptop. The explorer window pops up almost instantly and my heart jumps into my throat.
There’s a single video file on it. It’s called simply, Emily.
I look around, half expecting Trevor to step out from the closet, or the bathroom, or from under the bed. He doesn’t. I’m still all alone.
