or peeved that I’d spoiled his viewing pleasure—because I couldn’t recall having a conversation with him where his eyes got higher than my chest—but it didn’t matter. Without that job, I couldn’t pay the rent, so I switched back to skirts and carried my pumps in my purse as a compromise. If everything else failed, I could always smack any would-be attacker with a shoe.
On my half-run, half-walk to work that evening, I thought back to my conversation with Tori. Even with her encouragement, I felt too embarrassed to report what was happening. It was bad enough that Billy thought I was an idiot without proving to everybody else that he was right.
No, I could cope. After all, the person hadn’t hurt me, right? I’d be an adult about this and ignore the problem.
I repeated that to myself all evening while I served up beer and got my ass groped by a drunken regular. Every time a customer looked at me for a second too long, or smiled a touch too readily, I wondered… Was it him? I even caught myself sniffing a man before I scolded myself for being ridiculous.
My mantra continued the whole way home, while I climbed the stairs, unlocked my apartment door, and stepped inside. I could cope. I could cope. The books I’d carefully stacked hadn’t moved, and the mug I’d left perched on the edge of the counter was exactly where I placed it. If not for the now-familiar aroma, stronger than usual, I could have steadied my pulse. I sniffed again, and a faint memory flickered in the recesses of my mind. Had I smelled that before somewhere outside of home? I tried to cling onto the thread, but it skittered away like a child’s balloon, farther, farther, until it floated out of reach.
My gaze darted around the room, then stopped on the bed. Why was the bedspread wrinkled? Running late or not, I always smoothed out the covers before I left home. Always. I tiptoed over and ran my hand over the spot. Could I have sat down without remembering it? I paused, touched it again. Why was it warm? Warm like someone had been lying there?
My breath came in pants as I realised what that meant. Someone had been in my apartment again, and they’d been there recently. And not only that, this time they’d been in my bed.
CHAPTER 3
HOW LONG DID it take for a mattress to go cold? Ten minutes? Twenty? Surely no longer? I shuddered because that meant my intruder had left just before I got there. Was he still nearby?
I never normally swore—Momma had brought me up to be politer than that—but a string of expletives left my mouth.
Oh gosh, what to do? I scrabbled for my phone as I came to a decision—I’d call the detective who took my statement after the mugging. He’d said to contact him any time, right? And even if he thought I was mad, at least my fears would be on record somewhere if I turned up dead. Now, where did I put his card? I thought I’d tucked it into the front of To Kill a Mockingbird. Or was it Far from the Madding Crowd? I flicked through my meagre stack of books. Dammit! Where was it?
Perhaps I should call the station? What was the officer’s name? Jones? Johnson? Something like that—I couldn’t quite remember. I tugged at my hair so hard I must have loosened the roots.
For a brief moment, I considered calling 911 instead, but I soon discounted that. This was hardly an emergency. What would I say? Er, I think someone’s been sitting on my bed. Could you send a car out? They’d laugh at me for drinking too much wine and reading too much Goldilocks.
In the end, I jammed my dining chair under the door handle, and just for good measure, pushed the rickety table and chest of drawers up behind it. Would that hold? It would have to—apart from the bed and a tiny nightstand, that was all the furniture I had. I’d take a walk to the police station first thing in the morning. At least if I went in person, they couldn’t hang up on me.
When daylight dawned, I almost got cold feet. Venturing outside where he could be waiting was the last thing I wanted to do, but I forced myself to go. As I explained my story to the officer at the front desk, even I knew how crazy it sounded.