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KIERSTEN
The Past, December
66 Perry Street. It’s near the corner of 4th and Perry. Apartment 12C.
Parking the car, I stare at the building, my hands shaking so hard it takes me two attempts to confirm that yes, the note in my hand and the building number match. Sixty-six Perry Street, near the corner of 4th and Perry in the Village.
It’s a nondescript looking brownstone building with weathered white stone on the first floor façade and dark red brick running up the rest of the five floors. The roof’s flat, and in front there’s a relatively freshly painted wrought iron fence in front of the miniscule rectangle of concrete that’s the city’s excuse for a ‘garden’.
An even dozen steps lead from the sidewalk up to the front door, and with shaky, uncertain strides, I climb them. Witheach step, I look over my shoulder, certain that at any moment someone’s going to stop, point at me, and yell, “Murderer!”
By the time I reach the buzzer by the door, my hands are clammy and my heart is beating so hard I can’t hear anything but the rushing of blood in my ears. I feel like I’m about to jump out of my skin. Any second now, I’m going to hear the doublewhoop-whoopof a patrol car, and the first time I try to hit the buzzer button for Apartment 12C, I miss. The second time, the buzzer sounds, and a moment later the lock clicks open without anyone replying.
Apartment 12C is on the third floor, and it takes me a moment of gathering courage before I can knock. My knuckles are white, the skin stretched so tight when I finally do it.
I knock on the door with absolutely no idea who’s inside. All I know is that Gabriel told me to come here, and that’s enough for this instant. Through the peephole, I see the light go out as someone peers through and the locks click.
“Please come in.”
The woman on the other side is in a black dress and a white apron that identify her as house staff. Her feet are clad in black leather, flat-soled shoes, and while she’s not wearing anything on her head, she almost looks like a nun.
I wonder if she knows. It’s all I can think as she opens the door wider and gestures for me to come inside. My first step is hesitant, but I don’t have a choice now, do I?
I glance around nervously as she closes the door behind me, engaging three locks as soon as the latch clicks. “I’m Mrs. Shaw,” she says matter-of-factly. “I’ve been expecting you.”
The inside of the apartment is modern urban, with off white walls and hardwood floors that must cost an arm and a leg to rent... unless it’s bought. Then again, I don’t know whose house this is. I just have a sick feeling in my stomach. “Th–thank... you.”
Mrs. Shaw nods. “Come, I know you are in a state right now,” she says. Dread washes over me. She knows.What does she know?The questions bombard me, and she seems to answer each as they come.
“I wasn’t given details, and I ask that you not share details with me. But I know how to settle the nerves, and Mr. Joshua said that you might have some jangled ones. Here, let’s get you comfortable.”
Mr. Joshua. It’s Gabe’s friend. I almost ask if this is his apartment, but I keep my lips shut tight, allowing Mrs. Shaw to lead me wherever she wants. Gratitude hits me for the first time, and tears threaten, but I hold them back.
Mrs. Shaw wraps a comforting arm around my shoulder, and her grim smile tells me that while this woman might not know all the details, she’s well-versed enough in the ways of rich men to know that this isn’t a social visit.
After sitting me down on an overstuffed gray sofa, she goes into the kitchen, coming back a minute later with a frothy cup. “Eggnog,” she says, handing me the mug. “The thickness will help settle your nerves.”
Her smile wavers, and I can feel a wave of pity from the woman. I nod gratefully and accept the mug, sipping at it. It’s got plenty of punch to it, and with each sip my brain seems to trick itself a little bit more and more into calming down. Finally, when it’s gone, I hand it back to her. “Thank you.”
She takes the mug and disappears, coming back with a duster to take care of the mantel over what I assume is a decorative fireplace. It leaves me with nothing to do but stare at the clock that tick, tick, ticks. Bundled in a throw blanket and very much still an emotional wreck, all I can think is that I wish Gabriel would call me. I pull out my phone, but that’s quickly put to an end. Seeing me with it in my hand, Mrs. Shaw advises me, “I wouldn’t send a text message. Mr. Joshua says that wheneversomeone uses this apartment, I’m supposed to tell them to sit tight and wait. Reaching out doesn’t help with things.”
I’m quick to nod and put my phone down on the coffee table. “I don’t know what to do,” I barely manage to say. My fingers still tremble, and I shove them under my thighs to make them stop. I just wish I could go back. I wish I’d screamed for help or done anything else.
Mrs. Shaw is kind enough to interrupt my thoughts before I can spiral.
“We can watch TV if you’d like. Mr. Joshua has a full cable package available. I do like watchingGeneral Hospital. It starts in just over half an hour.”
Somehow, the image of this prim, put-together woman enjoying the sudsy melodramatic adventures of a daytime soap is just enough to distract me for a moment.
As if reading my mind, she tells me, “Distracting yourself is a good idea right now.”
I look toward the door, and Mrs. Shaw shakes her head. “Don’t worry, Miss. Mr. Joshua knows how to take care of things. That man helped my family long ago, and even though I’d clean this house for free for him in return, he still pays me double my normal rate I charge my other clients. He’s generous but also very, very good.”
My voice is low as I ask her, “So you have a secret too?”
Mrs. Shaw chuckles. “Of course. We all have secrets, Miss... Now, can I get you a snack?” With her head tilted, she waits for me expectantly.
“I’m not very hungry.”
