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I went back to my room and unpacked the rest of my bag. There wasn’t much there, but at least I found more clothes, a few sentimental things from my room, and my phone. As soon as it had enough charge to switch on, I called Helen.
“Hello?” she said, and I smiled at the sound of her voice.
“How are you going?” I asked. “It’s Emma, by the way.”
“I know,” Helen said. “Aside from my kids, you’re the only person who doesn’t sound like they’re calling me to sell me some kind of scam.”
“I’ve got some bad news,” I said. I’d rehearsed this story in my head ever since Xavier said I had to give up my routine, but it didn’t make it sound any less fake to my ears. “I know I was meant to come and see you tomorrow, but I’ve hurt my back.”
To me, it sounded unconvincing, like the adult version of “my dog ate my homework”. But thankfully, Helen didn’t question it.
“Sorry to hear that,” she said. “I hope you feel better soon.”
“Me too,” I said, this time meaning every word. “Hopefully I’ll see you next week.”
After saying a reluctant goodbye, I hung up the phone and wandered around the apartment, looking for something to do.
The stack of art books looked appealing, so I picked them up one by one and flicked through them. They included a combination of graphite sketches, nude photographs and watercolor designs. And they weren’t done by amateurs — they were insanely good. More than a couple of the pictures made me hold my breath as I flicked through: a child playing with a puppy in a puddle; a winter snowscape; a man drinking coffee on a cold city street.
I closed the last book and placed it back on the pile. I was impressed — these guys had an impressive collection. No wonder they were so talented at capturing different styles and techniques in their tattoos.
The next book was just as amazing. It was a photographic collection of recently drawn tattoos, and they ranged from black ink on painful-looking red welts to tattoos that looked like they were years old that were time-stamped the day before. From these photos, I learned that there was a huge variation in the amount of time it took for a tattoo to heal, which was perhaps why Jackson hadn’t been keen to schedule my next session too quickly.
I flicked through a few more books, and then I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Rationally, I knew there was no way that Nathan could have found me here — but hadn’t I felt that way about Cora’s house, too? I spun around to see what the threat was and saw a gray tabby cat padding across the balcony railing, pausing every few steps to regain its balance.
Get a grip, I told myself as I came back into the middle of the room and tried to stop my hands from shaking.It’s just a cat.
Just to be safe, I brought up the camera on my phone and flicked through the different views. Everything looked exactly the way I expected: the front door, the back door, the kitchen, the tattoo parlor, the basement, the stairs up to this apartment where I was sitting now. I could see myself on the camera and I waved, just to test it.
My video persona waved back.
When I switched it back to the tattoo parlor, I discovered that I could see all three guys, and it made me feel better to know they were there.
I left the cameras on and played a couple of CDs in the stereo player that looked like it had been transported from the year 2003. I was so absorbed in the sound that I didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs, or the beeps that accompanied the code being punched in on the lock.
“Hello?” a man’s voice called, and my heart leaped into my throat.
“Who is it?” I asked, as I searched the room for anything I might use as a weapon.
“Jackson,” he said, and I stopped looking for fire pokers.
“Sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m just a bit jumpy since… you know.”
“Understandable,” he said, as he came into the living room. “I just came up to see if you’d like to join me for lunch?”
That sounded great to me. Especially since there was a fresh loaf of bread sitting on the counter next to the microwave.
“Sure,” I said, as I pulled out four slices. “As long as you can find something to put in it — the cupboards don’t seem to be well-stocked.”
“Ah, you noticed that, did you?” Jackson asked. “None of us are great cooks. Adrian can make great French toast, and I make a mean mac and cheese, but that’s it.”
“Are you serious?” I asked. “No vegetables, no meat?”
Jackson laughed.
“Did you think you were staying above a restaurant?”
I felt my cheeks heat up.
