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Chapter 1
Now—Sam
Themetallicbarkofthe door buzzer startled me out of reading Stephen King’sFairy Tale. And I was just getting to the first good part of what I knew would be many. King had been my literary hero since I was thirteen years old and picked up a movie tie-in paperback ofCarriein a used bookstore. I hated being pulled out of his world.
“Shit. What fresh hell is this?” I mumbled. I closed the book reluctantly and stood.
It was a Saturday morning in June, the early summer sun pouring in through the four windows of my condo living room. That damn buzzer! I’djustsettled in on the couch, Bluetooth speaker streaming a George Winston playlist, a steaming cup of Earl Grey on the end table beside me. Marc was out at the gym. Our rescue dog, Vito, a mix of Boston terrier and pug, snored on the floor at my feet. I couldn’t imagine a more contented home scene.
A perfect quiet weekend morning—the kind we introverts adore. God, I’d waited for this. I’d gotten King’s book from Amazon at the beginning of the week, but waited until now to settle down and savor it—my blessed and peaceful alone time.
The buzzer sounded again—had it always sounded so annoying, so intrusive? So impatient?
I sighed and set the book down. “Jesus. No rest for the wicked.” Longingly, I gazed at my tea. Vito stirred, lifting his heavy head from the rug, and gave a small grumble and snort. He, too, seemed annoyed with the interruption. He’d never been much of a watchdog and hardly ever barked.
I moved to the front door and pressed the intercom button.I swear to God if this is a Jehovah’s Witness…
“Yeah?” I immediately regretted my tone and hoped my irritation didn’t come through. Whomever was out there didn’t deserve it. Besides, it might be Marc, who’d forgotten his keys—yet again.
“Sammy Blake?” A man’s voice came through.
I paused, head cocked, finger hovering above thespeakbutton. No one had called me Sammy since I was a kid, back in eastern Ohio. I’d thought that part of my past was dead. Life in the foothills of the Appalachians now seemed like days that had happened to someone else. Once I’d grown into a man, I found a different life, a different me. No one knew the person I was back then. Often, I thought, neither did I.
“Who is this?” Maybe it was irrational, but I felt a prickle of nerves at the back of my neck. The fine hairs there stood on end.
There was a pause. Vito sniffed at my calves and pawed at me, whining. To him, my proximity to the front door meant only one thing—we were headed out for a walk. I glanced down at him and shook my head. “No. Not right now. Do you see a leash in my hand?”
“An old friend,” came the reply. “Can you buzz me in?”
Okay, this is weird. I wasn’t expecting anybody, not even a delivery. The fact that this person called me by my childhood name was kind of surreal and creepy. In spite of my misgivings, I was curious. Who wouldn’t be?
Still, I didn’t feel comfortable buzzing him in. This was Chicago, after all, where murder was commonplace and crime was part of the city’s identity. Most people, even in s0-calledsafeneighborhoods, were careful about who they let into their home. Yet, this person knew my name, so this couldn’t be some random weirdo ringing condo building intercoms to get inside. Long ago, the homeowner’s association had decided we wouldnotput names next to intercom buttons outside, for just this purpose. The unit number, especially in a crime-ridden metropolis like Chicago, was enough.
No. This is a specific weirdo. Who knows your name…
I decided in the moment that what made the most sense was to simply go downstairs and find out who this person was and what he wanted. “Gimme a sec,” I said. “I’ll be right down.”
I was in a robe and a pair of plaid flannel boxers. I hurried into the bedroom and pulled yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt off a chair that existed solely for the purpose of collecting cast-off clothing, much to my neatnik husband’s chagrin. I dressed quickly and hurried down the stairs to the lobby.
Through the glass front door, I could see him—a man about my age with dark hair, red-rimmed round glasses, and a tall, lanky build.Ichabod Crane. The Scarecrow.
No clue.
I patted my pocket, making sure my house keys were there, and headed out to join him in the courtyard.
I smiled, despite my nerves. Seeing him rung absolutely no bells. “Hello. I’m Sam.” I cocked my head. “And you are?”
He grinned back. “This is weird.”
“Uh, yeah, it certainly is.” I narrowed my eyes. “Do I know you?”
He held out his hands, palms up. His expression was neutral, yet I swore I detected a bit of hope in it. The sun caught and lightened the green of his irises and, for just a moment, there was a sense of déjà vu. “You used to.”
The day was warm, humid. Bees buzzed. The sun blazed. The air was still.
Yet an icy chill ran down my spine.
“I did? I don’t recall. I’m sorry—I’m drawing a blank.”
