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“Definitely. I’m wide open.”
“Great. His name is... wait, where did I put it?... oh, JamesTremlin. I’ll give him your phone number and have him reach out directly. He can’t make the opening, he said, but he’s going to drop by the gallery later in the week.”
“Thanks so much, Josh.”
“More to come. See you Tuesday.”
I let the good news wash over me for a second, but as soon as I’m off the phone, my thoughts fly back to the mystery visitor. Who do I know who would just drop by on the spur of the moment? My life might not be boiling over with friends, but I’m on pleasant enough terms with a few of the people who assign me design work, even if it’s mostly by email and Zoom. There’s a guy named Trevor, for instance, who regularly gives me jobs and has suggested that we grab a drink together—just in a friendly way, I think. He knows the studio address because he had to messenger me something here once. But he never would have said he worked at the gallery or anything vaguely similar that Alejandro could have misinterpreted.
I suddenly recall the way Alejandro worded it: the guy wasn’t knocking on my door, he wastryingit. Even if it was a person I know professionally, I can’t imagine him feeling comfortable coming in without permission. Whoever this was must have been caught off guard when Alejandro emerged from his studio and then made up a lie to explain his presence and another to get out of there quickly.
Not bothering with the cleaning supplies, I nervously grab my jacket from the hook by the door, stuff my arms into the sleeves, and slip the strap of my messenger bag over my head. After twisting the dead bolt, I ease the door open and peek out, but there’s no one in sight. I open the door all the way and stick my head out into the corridor, which still appears empty. I quickly lock the door behind me, and then dash to the elevator. The waitfor the car is interminable, and I jab the call button four or five times even though I know that won’t make it come any faster. I don’t exhale until I’m finally downstairs, pushing open the door to Second Avenue.
For a minute I stand on the crowded sidewalk, breathing in the crisp evening air and glancing all around me. Though many of the people around me are hurrying down the block, others are milling outside nearby buildings, and I let my gaze bounce from one person to the next. There’s no one who stands out to me, especially fitting the description I’ve been given.
As I start for home, I wonder again if Alejandro misunderstood the man somehow. Maybe he hadn’t mentioned the gallery. But regardless, why would someone be trying the door?
Oh god, what if the man who attempted to get into my studio is the same person who broke into my apartment? That would mean he’s not a random creep but rather someone who’s targeting me specifically and knows where both my home and studio are.
Deacon, I think, for the second time. He certainly fits the vague description Alejandro offered. And I realize now that after we’d had coffee near the New Museum on the day we met, he ended up walking me to my studio. Though my name’s not on the buzzer, he could have figured out the floor and room number by asking a neighbor who emerged from the building.
So what do I do now? I can hardly call the police and throw him under the bus with so little to go on. Reaching my block, I glance nervously behind me, and as I do, I notice Mikoto striding in my direction.
“Skyler,” she calls out. “I thought that might be you.” She’s wearing an oversized black peacoat over jeans and there’s a backpack slung over her shoulder.
“Oh hi,” I say, stopping and smiling. It’s nice to see her again.
“Sorry I didn’t answer your text earlier,” she says, catching up with me. “I was going to get back to you after class.”
“No worries. I hope I’m not being a nuisance. I just wanted to ask your advice on something.”
“Of course. Are you up for a coffee now? We could go to Eighth Street Espresso.”
“Sure... thanks.” I’m certainly in no rush to get back to my apartment.
“Let me drop off my backpack first, though. Do you want to head over first and grab a table?”
“Will do.”
I’ve passed the place a thousand times, but since I make my coffee at home to save money, I’ve never been inside. It’s minimalist in style, with gray metal tables and chairs, but there’s a welcoming vibe. Surprisingly, it’s only half full, and I have no problem securing a table.
As soon as I’m settled, my mind goes straight back to the guy at my studio door, and so it’s a relief when Mikoto arrives. We queue up together for decaf cappuccinos, which I insist on paying for, and when we return to the table, she finally slips out of her coat. She’s wearing a burnt orange, boxy sweater with big gold hoop earrings, and her short hair is in that messy, spiky style that makes her look more like a supermodel than a law student. In my ancient flannel shirt, I feel like a schlub.
“How are you doing?” she asks. “I saw the locksmith out in the hall yesterday, so I know you took care of your lock.”
“And I’ve upgraded to a better model.”
“Good, you can try to put the whole thing behind you.”
“I was hoping to do that,” I say, shrugging a shoulder, “but I’m not so sure I can.”
I describe what happened less than an hour ago.
“How scary,” she says. “And it’s also a pretty big coincidence, considering what happened the other night. Are you sure it’s not someone you know?”
“That’s exactly what Iamstarting to think.”
She lifts a single eyebrow. “Does anyone come to mind?”
