Hilroy raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say a word as I turn the screen so he can see Chris’s picture. Then his brows raise up even farther, right into his hairline. “How do you—”
“That’s who I’m seeing.”
“You—”
“Can you believe it?”
He’s shaking his head, very slowly. “Not really.”
I’m struggling to breathe. Not really. But it is real, isn’t it? Everything that’s been happening is all too real. Hilroy recognizes Chris because Chris comes to the prison. And there’s only one person at the prison who knows me and where to find me.
“I know it’s weird,” I make myself say, trying to smile like I’m happy. Like I can even remember how that feels. “But... it’s good.” I nearly choke on the word.
“Then, uh, I’m happy for you.”
I give a little pout and push a bit more. “He’s so busy, though. You probably see him more than I do.”
Hilroy’s tone is almost apologetic. “Sometimes, but he doesn’t visit as much, anymore.”
My ears ring and my knees turn to putty, nausea welling in my throat. It’s the answer I was expecting, but being right doesn’t fill me with the same smug satisfaction it once did. I hide my reaction and turn the phone to study the screen, the handsome face gazing back blandly. I look down the hall that leads to the visitors room. Then I nod, letting it all sink in. “That’s good to know.”
12
I’M EXTRA PARANOID on my ride home, turning without warning, slipping in and out of parking garages I know like the back of my hand. I don’t catch anyone following me, and it’s only when I’m confident no one could have succeeded—even if they wanted to—that I park in my rented spot, heart pounding from the imaginary chase. I dart through the chilly garages until I reach my own block, then jab the elevator call button.
My phone rings, the shrill tone more jarring than a gunshot, and I snatch it out of my bag and swipe the screen without thinking it through. Anyone I might have lost on my convoluted way home could follow the sound, and I need it to stop. It’s only when I hear Chris’s voice that his photo comes into focus.
“Denise?” he says, when I don’t say anything. “Are you there?”
The elevator doors slide open, and I jump in. I press the button for the fourteenth floor and relax approximately one iota. “Yes,” I say eventually. “I’m here. I’m just getting home.”
“Oh. Where were you?”
“Visiting a friend. What are you up to?”
“Not much. I’m calling to see if you want to get together soon. For a non-sexual date. We could see a movie. Go bowling. Play cards.”
“Who could say no to those tempting offers?”
“When are you free? Tonight?”
The elevator stops at my floor and I get off, keys in hand, just as Mr. Pedersen and his latest lady friend emerge from his apartment. He’s wearing a shiny black robe and she’s in a red halter dress, blond hair twisted in a bun on top of her head. I ignore them and they ignore me, and I let myself into my apartment and lock the door.
“Denise?”
“Sorry,” I say. “Tonight’s no good. How about Friday?”
“That’s a long way off.”
“I told you, I’m very popular.”
“And I believe you. I’m working Monday—what about Tuesday?”
I press my eye to the peep hole and cringe as I see Mr. Pedersen locking lips with his date, one bony hand gripping her barely-covered ass.
“Wednesday,” I say. I don’t know what I’m going to do to figure out who Chris is by then, but I’ll have to come up with something, and each extra day seems essential for a person with no experience identifying her boyfriend-stalker.
“Wednesday works. What do you want to do? See a movie? I can pick you up at your place and we can go to that old theater on the edge of the town that shows black and white movies.”
The last thing I’m going to do is go to any old building on the edge of town where there’s nobody to witness whatever Chris plans to do to me. I don’t know what he’s up to, or who the fuck he is, but this morning’s raid and my father’s desperation tell me that whatever it is, there’s not much time left.
“Come over,” I say. “I’ll make dinner.” I turn away from the peep hole to contemplate my kitchen, knowing the cupboards are bare.