Page 23 of The Voicemail

Iclose my eyes and rest my head against the cool window of the SUV. Mistake. The second my eyes shut, the message flashes across the backs of my lids.

You should really add more personal touches to your office.

He’s watching me. He could be anywhere, at any given moment.

Alex sits quietly beside me. He hasn’t said a word since he insisted we leave, and I almost appreciate it. He isn’t trying to gloss this over and make it all okay. It’s not okay. It’s insane and terrifying, and he understands that. He’s the only person who’s ever taken these feelings seriously.

I look out the window and realize we’re heading south. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“To my apartment,” he says. “You’ll be safer there.”

“No,” I argue automatically. “I want to go home.”

His head turns slightly, and he watches me, wary. “That isn’t a good idea, Elena.”

“I don’t care,” I say, shaking my head. “I need to be in a place where I feel safe.”

“You feel safe in the apartment he tried to break into?” he asks.

Well, he’s got me there.

“We don’t have to stay,” I say, wavering. “I just need a few minutes to be there and breathe. Please, just let me go home.”

There are tears in my eyes, which I hate. I don’t want my stalker to take away my dignity.

He looks toward the windshield. “Marco, take us to West Seventeenth.”

The driver changes lanes without a word. I stare at Alex.

“You’re letting me go?” I ask hesitantly.

“I told you, Elena, you aren’t a prisoner. Of course you can go home. As long as I’m with you.”

I should be irritated by the condition, but mostly I’m just relieved. As much as I’d love to be alone in my own apartment, it’s good to know I’ll have protection. Maybe that makes me weak. I don’t care.

The closer we get to my neighborhood, the harder it is to sit still. I keep twisting my fingers together in my lap, then forcing them apart because I hate how nervous I look. If Alex notices, he doesn’t comment on it. That might be the kindest thing he’s done all day.

When we get to my street, Alex looks at Marco.

“Circle once,” he instructs, and we pass by my building.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m checking the street,” he says. “It’s just a precaution.”

I nod but have to swallow a sigh. I don’t like this. Even if I’ve gotten used to watching my back everywhere I go, there’s something that feels odd about having someone else do it for me. It makes the threat feel even more real.

When we finally pull up a second time, an SUV stops behind us. Two of Alex’s men get out. I recognize one from the elevator this morning. He gives me a polite nod like we’re neighbors meeting at the mailbox and not participants in whatever nightmare my life has become.

One man goes into my building first. The other crosses the street toward the vacant one. Alex waits, and I hate the waiting. He’s casing the place, I realize. Making sure it’s safe.

After a minute, his phone buzzes. He reads the message, then opens his door.

“Now,” he says.

We get out of the car together. He walks next to me, but a step behind, as if he’s pretending to give me my space. We take the elevator up in silence, and when it opens, I finally feel like I can breathe.

Out on the landing, there’s no sign that anything violent ever happened here. My door is completely fixed. It looks exactly how it always looked. In fact, if it weren’t for the smell of fresh paint, I’d have no idea that anything was different.