Someone Is Watching (11 page)

“What the hell!”

I open my eyes, pushing aside a nearby pillow to see my brother Heath bolt up beside me in bed, holding out his injured arm.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I was having a nightmare.” I check the clock. It’s after midnight.

Heath is rolling up his sleeve, although it’s too dark to really see anything. “I think you drew blood.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He sighs. “It’s okay. I’ll live. A nightmare, huh? Do I have to ask what it was about?”

I shake my head as my breathing gradually returns to normal.

“Can I get you a glass of water or something?”

“No, I’m fine,” I tell him, knowing this is what he needs to hear. I wipe a line of perspiration from my forehead, my body suddenly cold and clammy.

“You need your sleep, Bailey.”

“I know. I’m so tired.”

“Ssh. Just close your eyes. You don’t have to be afraid. I’m right here beside you.”

“Thank you. It means a lot.”

But even as I’m saying the words I know that Heath is already drifting back to sleep. I lie there beside him for several long minutes, then carefully extricate myself from his arms and climb out of bed. I grab the scissors from the top drawer of my nightstand and do my regular check of the apartment, then proceed to the bathroom, where I take off my clothes and run the hot water. I shower in the dark, emerging fifteen minutes later into a steam-filled room, my hair wet, my body red and sore. I brush my teeth and slip into a pair of freshly washed pajamas, courtesy of Claire. I towel-dry my hair.

Walking back into the bedroom, I return the scissors to the top drawer of the nightstand, then grab my binoculars and proceed to the window. It takes only a few seconds for me to locate the right apartment—three floors down, four windows from the left. The light in the bedroom is still on, and its occupant is moving around inside. He approaches the window, his shirt unbuttoned and hanging loose, and stares down at the street below, running his hand absently through his hair. Then he turns in my direction, almost as if he knows I’m there. I watch him reach toward the turquoise lamp with its pleated white shade on the high table in front of him. I watch the room go dark.

The nightmare begins almost as soon as I close my eyes. It repeats itself over and over again, as if on an endless reel. I am being chased by a faceless man wearing black Nike sneakers. Despite the fact that I’m running as fast as I can, he is gaining on me. Across the street is a four-story, lemon-yellow building. A woman is sitting on her balcony, staring at me through a pair of binoculars. She can see everything. Surely she will call the police, and I’ll be saved. Except she doesn’t call the police. Instead, she inches forward in her seat, adjusting the focus of her binoculars so that she can see more clearly what is about to happen. She watches the man grab me from behind and throw me to the ground. She watches as he beats me with his fists and tears the clothes from my body. She watches as he pushes into me, pounding me repeatedly and without mercy into the cold, hard ground. Only when he is done does she lower her binoculars so that I can see her face.

My
face.

I come instantly awake, gasping for air, my entire body bathed in perspiration, my sheets soaked.

I should be used to such dreams by now, but I’m not. I look
toward the clock beside my bed. It is almost ten
A
.
M
. Heath is gone. In his place is a note:
Got a callback on that Whiskas commercial. Talk to you later, H.

I climb out of bed, walk to the bedroom window, press the button that lifts the blackout blinds. I am blinded by the bright sun shining into my face. My eyes close reflexively. I lean my head against the glass, soaking up the sun’s rays, trying to gather strength from its warmth.

He’s there when I open my eyes, mere inches from my face, his nose pressed against my own. I scream and stumble back toward my bed, falling to my knees and burying my face in the palms of my hands, my hands shaking. I hear laughter and force my eyes up. The man is still there, dangling just outside my window, a rope around his waist securing him to the suspended wooden platform on which he stands, a long squeegee in his hands, as he draws it back and forth against the glass. Another man is standing next to him. Both men are olive-skinned and in their early twenties. They wear baggy white uniforms with logos that identify them as “Prestige Window Cleaners.”

“Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to scare you,” the first man shouts through the thick glass. “Didn’t you get the notice we’d be working this side of the building today?”

I push myself back into a standing position, steady myself against the foot of the bed. I forgot all about this.

“You might want to close your blinds,” the second man suggests.

I press the button and the blinds descend, causing the men to disappear an inch at a time, first their heads, then the logos on their uniforms, followed by their torsos, their legs, and finally their heavy work boots, as effortlessly as if I’m erasing figures from a chalkboard. Would that everything were so easy to erase.

The phone rings, and I jump.

“Hi, babe.” His voice caresses my skin. “How’re you doing today?”

“Okay.” I’m so relieved I almost burst into tears. It’s been three days since his last call.

“Just okay?”

“I’m good,” I lie. I’ve gotten very good at telling people what they want to hear.

“I can only talk a few minutes.”

“I know. You’re a busy man.”

“What have you been up to?”

“Not much. Claire and Jade came over last night. And Heath was here. He slept over.”

“I think I’m jealous.”

“He’s not here now.” My tone indicates that this is just a statement of fact and not an invitation to intimacy. I wonder how long it will be before I’m ready to extend that kind of invitation; I suspect he is thinking the same thing.

A moment’s silence, then: “I’m in meetings all morning.”

“It’s been so long since we’ve had any time together.”

“I know. Maybe later in the week …”

“I miss you,” I tell him.

“I miss you, too.”

Does he? Maybe the old Bailey, the one who didn’t whine and snivel at the slightest provocation, the one who wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone. Not this new Bailey, this inferior reproduction who can’t stop feeling sorry for herself and who jumps at her own shadow. “I was thinking of going back to work,” I say, feeling his attention waver and desperate to keep him on the line. I am paradoxically without shame and overflowing with it. The truth is that the mere thought of returning to the job I used to adore fills me with dread. Even now, I feel the start of a panic attack fluttering against my insides, like a trapped bird.

“You think you’re ready?”

“Maybe in a few more weeks,” I say.

Another moment’s silence, this one more awkward than the first, then: “Look, sweetheart. I really have to go. I just called to see how you’re doing.”

“Doing okay.”

“I’ll stop by as soon as I can. Why don’t you go out for a walk or something? It’s a beautiful day.”

“A walk?” I haven’t left my condo since the night I was raped.

“A walk, a run. Get some fresh air, some exercise. You must be going stir-crazy in that apartment.”

I latch happily onto this idea. It’s because I haven’t left my apartment in weeks that I’m feeling so helpless and depressed. I have cabin fever. I need to get out, take a walk, go for a run around the block.

“You don’t even have to go outside. Don’t you have a gym in your building?”

I picture the large room on the second floor filled with rowing machines, treadmills, free weights, elliptical machines.

“Just be careful not to overdo it. You have a tendency to do too much.”

“I won’t overdo it.”

“You feel better already, don’t you?”

“You always make me feel better.”

“I really have to go.”

“Call me later?”

“I’ll try.”

“I love you,” I say.

“Take care of yourself,” he says in return.

Not quite a fair exchange, and we both know it.

I shower, stealing a quick look at the teeth marks surrounding my right nipple. I wonder if this obscene imprint will ever go away. The doctors assure me that it will disappear eventually.

But I’ve been branded. Brands as deep as this one never go away.

The phone is ringing as I emerge from the shower. I throw on a housecoat and answer it on the third ring.

“Miss Carpenter, hi. It’s Finn at the concierge desk.”

“Yes?” My heart starts pounding. It seems that every time Finn calls these days, it’s to tell me something I’d rather not hear. Today is no exception.

“Travis Shepherd is here to see you.”

“Travis?”

“Should I send him up?”

Dear God, what does Travis want? Did Heath tell him to come over? “No. I’ll come down,” I blurt. I don’t want to go downstairs, but I certainly don’t want Travis in my apartment. Not after what happened the last time he was here. It’s safer to meet him in the lobby. “I’ll be down in two minutes.”

I try not to panic. I remind myself that Travis is, for the most part, a good man. When we first started seeing each other, he was funny, thoughtful, and kind. He made me laugh. We’d go dancing, to the movies, and for long walks on the beach. Sometimes Heath joined us. Occasionally we’d smoke a few joints. Soon it became more than occasionally. Then it was pretty much Heath and Travis getting stoned all the time, with me watching, disapproving, from the sidelines. Arguments replaced laughter. Soon all Travis and I did was fight.

You can do this, I tell myself now. Travis is here to show support and concern, not to make a scene. I throw off my robe, climb into some exercise clothes. “You caught me just as I was going to the gym,” I practice brightly in front of my mirror. My reflection looks far from convinced.

I almost don’t make it to the elevators. It is only after I have fully satisfied myself that no one is lurking outside my door that I am able to step outside, lock my apartment, and proceed cautiously down the hall. I press the call button and wait for the elevator, looking from right to left, left to right, over one shoulder, then the other. Several times I decide to give up and return to my unit. Each time I take a few steps, only to stop and turn around again. I can’t give up now. An elevator jerks to a stop with an audible thud. Its doors slowly open.

A man is standing inside.

I gasp and take a step back, feel my legs about to give way. “I forgot something,” I mutter, tears filling my eyes as I stumble back to my apartment. I stand gripping the doorknob, my heart jumping around wildly, until I hear the elevator doors close and the elevator resume its descent. It takes several minutes before I’m able to muster enough courage to try again. I’m being silly. There was
nothing to fear from the man inside that elevator. Not all men are rapists. And this one was short and stocky, not to mention at least fifty years old. He wasn’t the man who attacked me.

Although, can I really be sure?

I press the call button again. The elevator doors open to reveal two young women, tall and beautiful and brimming with the kind of confidence I once possessed. They are dressed in leotards and tank tops. “Going to the gym?” one asks, her voice high-pitched and girlish.

I force my feet over the threshold. “Maybe later,” I tell them, pressing the button for the lobby. The elevator descends to the second floor without further interruption.

“See you,” one of the girls says as she locks arms with her friend and the two of them exit the elevator.

Luckily, no one else gets on, and I am able to steady myself with numerous deep breaths before the doors open onto the marble-and-mirrored lobby. Finn acknowledges me with a nod from the glassed-in concierge office to my right. Behind him I see a wall of surveillance TVs, their screens rotating with images of the building’s common areas: the hallways, the stairwells, the elevators, the pool, even the exercise room. Cameras are everywhere. Someone is always watching.

Finn nods toward the lobby’s main sitting area, where Travis has been waiting now for the better part of fifteen minutes. At first I don’t see him because he is blocked by a huge arrangement of fresh flowers that all but overwhelms the glass coffee table on which it sits. He jumps to his feet as I approach, sending the mustard-colored tub chair on which he was perched into a spin. He looks good, which doesn’t surprise me. Travis always looks good. Tall, slim-hipped, boyishly handsome, eyes the color of natural mink, wavy brown hair. He’s wearing casual black pants and a pink golf shirt, as if he just stepped out of a brochure for the Turnberry Golf and Country Club, which is where he works, teaching golf to a bunch of mostly middle-aged men and women, the majority of whom will never break a hundred, or so he regularly
complains. He dabbles a bit in modeling and acting, which is how he met my brother, at an audition.

He hurries toward me. I gird myself for an embrace that doesn’t come.

“What the hell are you trying to do?” he demands. His voice is soft, as if he understands that he is in a public place, but menacing, as if he doesn’t care. Two little red circles occupy the middle of his cheeks. I recognize those circles. They come out whenever he is really angry. The last time I saw those circles was the last time we were together.

“What are you talking about?”

“You sic the cops on me, for crap’s sake?” Part statement, part question, part “what the hell is going on?”

“What?” I say again.

“You actually think I’m the man who raped you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t give me that shit. We’re way past that.” Travis runs an exasperated hand through his thick, wavy hair. “You weren’t speaking to that cop, Detective Marcus, or whatever the hell her name is?”

I hesitate. “I spoke to Detective Marx, yes, of course. She’s in charge of the investigation.”

“And you told her what exactly?”

“I don’t know,
exactly,
” I respond, trying desperately to remember. “I asked her if she thought I might have been targeted.”