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“Overreact? Um, have you ever heard ofstranger danger? Of kidnappers and stalkers and serial killers? You’re going to his house? Alone? You’re the only daughter of Robert Rosenthal—your dad doesn’t even let you go anywhere in New York without a security detail, and you’re going to some random gardener’s house—alone?”
I shrug. “Well, it’ll get Daddy’s attention, won’t it?”
“Do you know what will get his attention?” Cammie exclaims, eyes wide. “The news report when they find your dead body in some ditch!”
“He’s a part-time gardener,” I laugh, “not a serial killer.”
“You won’t know until you’re naked with a knife to the throat,” Cammie whispers darkly.
“Please.” I roll my eyes. “I’m going to Noah’s house, not Luca Fletcher-Lowe’s hotel room.”
We both shudder. Finally, Cammie sighs. “Well, you better send me a pin of your location. And take my mace with you. Jesus, you reallymustbe desperate.”
“I am,” I say. Then I throw back my long hair over my shoulders and give her my sweetest smile. “Cheer up. It might not be so bad. After all, Cammie, you’re the one who told me that poor people fuck harder than rock stars.”
Chapter 7
Villain Vibes
Istandinthemiddle of a city street, in the rain, in my Alexander McQueen coat, and wonder if I’m the victim of a cruel prank.
Darkness and rain obscure the concrete block of buildings in front of me, stifling the flickering lights of nearby lampposts. I’ve been pressing the intercom button for the past five minutes at least, to no result.
As if I wasn’t already nervous enough coming here. What if Cammie was right? What if I was fooled by Noah’s bone structure and warm embrace? What if he actually is a serial killer, and I’ve fallen right into his trap?
Sheltered—barely—by the doorway, I take my phone out of my pocket and check the address for the tenth time. I’m definitely at the address Noah sent me—the one I sent to Cammie with instructions to call the police if she doesn’t hear back from me. I checked with the taxi driver and I checked my location (which I also sent to my best friend in the US, just in case the British police fail to find me and the FBI has to get involved).
This is the right address—so why is nobody answering?
“Hey!”
I’m so startled I almost drop my phone. Whipping around, I turn to see a dark, bulky figure running down the pathway from the busy street. The rain is falling so thickly that I can’t make out the figure straightaway. I wrap my hand around the small, sparkly mace in my coat pocket. I’m a Rosenthal—I’mnotgoing down without a fight.
Then the figure draws closer to reveal a pale, concerned face under dark, sodden hair.
“Shit, I’m so sorry!” Noah runs the rest of the way and hastily types a code into the keypad and the door clicks open with a tinny noise. He pushes it open with one arm but gestures me through, letting me go in before him. “I thought I’d be back in time, but the coach kept us running laps because someone left their wraps on the gym floo—” He spots my look of mingled icy fury and blank confusion. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Sorry I made you wait.”
He leads me up a set of concrete stairs (apparently poor people don’t do elevators?) and down a white corridor with grey tiles. It’s barren and ugly, but at least it’s clean. I repress the urge to stand close to him and bathe in his body heat while he fishes in his pocket for his keys. Luckily, warm air greets us the moment we walk into his flat.
Once we’re inside, Noah dumps his enormous training bag and turns to take my coat. I stiffly shrug it off and watch as he places it on a coat hanger above a small, noisy radiator. He probably has no idea this coat is probably worth more than everything in this apartment put together.
I follow him through the small corridor and into the flat. It’s not how I pictured it somehow—I’m not sure what I pictured exactly. I guess I pictured it sort of like the student dorms at Spearcrest.
Instead, it looks… well.
It looks like someone poor lives there.
It’s a studio flat, for one—but not like a New York loft. More like one room with everything crammed inside of it: the kitchen, the bed, the sofa. The walls are white, the threadbare carpet is grey, and the furniture is mismatched.
In one corner, there is a small sofa in front of a tiny TV set. Next to it are some boxy shelves crammed with big tubs of protein powder, paperbacks and shoe boxes. In the kitchen area (I couldn’t bring myself to think of that tiny corner as an actual kitchen), bowls and glasses are drying on a metallic rack. The windows are wet with condensation.
As for the bedroom… It's just a mattress on what seems to be some sort of box with drawers in it. The covers are a little rumpled, and some clothes are tossed on a chair at the foot of the bed.
Normally, I would be put off by how ugly my surroundings are, but I don’t feel put off. Instead, I feel a sense of curiosity and excitement, like an explorer. I want to peel open the box of Noah’s life and rifle through its contents for information. I want to open cupboards and look at all his things. Root through the shoe boxes to see what they contain, flip through the books. What do poor people own? What do they read?
I’m surprised they read at all.
Noah doesn’t seem concerned about my impressions of his living condition. He doesn’t seem ashamed of the way he lives—but then I suppose it’s not like he would know any different. He heads into the kitchen, fills his plastic kettle with tap water and turns it on. Looking over his shoulder, he raises an eyebrow at me.
