Page 24 of The Voicemail

Except I feel different. Instead of the usual relief of coming home, all I feel is terror. The same as last night, only worse. My steps slow.

Alex’s voice is low behind me. “You don’t have to do this today.”

“Yes, I do,” I answer plainly.

“Well, in that case…” He holds out his hand and gives me a new key. “Luca dropped it off this morning. They changed your locks and gave you a new deadbolt.”

I take it wordlessly and slip it into the lock before I can change my mind. I push open the door the way I’ve done a hundred different times, but today my legs are shaking. The second it’s open, though, I want to slam it shut and run out of the building.

The cushions have been thrown off the couch. Books are scattered across the floor. The framed print over my desk is crooked. My closet doors are wide open, clothes pulled from hangers and dropped in heaps. The little ceramic bowl where I keep spare change is shattered near the door.

I take a step back into Alex, solid behind me. I look up to see him staring into the apartment, his jaw tight.

That’s what undoes me. After weeks of fear and panic and uneasiness, what finally breaks me is knowing someone else sees the truth. Someone actually understands.

I hate the sound that comes out of me. I hate that Alex is here to hear it. It isn’t delicate or dainty in the way I imagine other women cry. It comes from somewhere primal and full of rage. It bursts out of me violently.

Everyone told me I was overreacting. The police. My landlord. Claire, with her soft little almost-concerned face. Mr. Bellamy, every time he looked annoyed that my fear might interrupt his schedule. Even Maya, though she tried harder than anyone not to.

I was right. I was right the entire time. Not that it’s much of a consolation. It doesn’t put my apartment back in order. It doesn’t restore my sense of safety.

Alex puts a hesitant hand on my shoulder.

I immediately shake it off.

“Don’t,” I nearly scream.

He instantly removes it, which seems to only make me cry harder.

My legs start to shake, so I finally step inside and sink onto the edge of the wrecked couch. I pick up a slashed pillow and clutch it to my chest.

“I knew it,” I say, but my voice barely works. “I knew something was wrong.”

Alex doesn’t answer right away.

I look up at him through tears, furious suddenly. “Say it.”

His face is unreadable. “Say what?” he asks, confused.

“That I was right.”

I don’t know why I need it from him. I barely know him. He isn’t my friend. He isn’t one of the cops who dismissed me. He isn’t any of the co-workers who rolled their eyes at me when I asked where the flowers came from.

He is, however, here. He sees it. And God help me, I need someone to say it.

Alex’s expression changes. Not pity. I would hate pity. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s a fury that matches my own.

“You were right,” he says without hesitation.

He walks over and sits down next to me on the couch, gingerly, like he’s afraid I might lash out at him.

“Everyone made me feel crazy,” I whisper.

“You’re not,” he says quietly. “You never were.”

I look up at him, then lean closer without much thought. His arms wrap awkwardly around me as he scoots closer to catch me. It isn’t intimate in any way. If anything, it feels wrong.

For one terrible second, I think I’ve made a mistake. I’m relying on the comfort of a complete stranger. I’m even crazier than I thought.