Page 3 of The Voicemail

He nods. “I can walk you to the curb.”

The offer is kind, and I hate how badly I want to accept it.

“I’m okay,” I say.

Peter doesn’t look convinced.

“I’m calling a car,” I add, so he knows I’m not completely crazy.

That settles him a little. “Wait inside until it gets here.”

“I will.”

I don’t actually call a car. Surge pricing is ridiculous at this hour, and my apartment isn’t that far. More importantly, I’m tired of arranging my life around a threat I can’t name. I’m tired of changing my schedule, checking windows, crossing streets, and asking old men with bad knees to walk me outside. I’m tired of being scared.

So I pack my bag, lock my desk, and leave through the front with my pepper spray in my coat pocket and my keys already threaded between my fingers. The cold hits my face the second I step outside.

For a moment, the city feels normal. Rain drips from the awning. Steam rises from a grate near the curb. A taxi rolls through the light at the corner. Two women laugh as they hurry past sharing an umbrella.

I hold on to that normal feeling as I walk. At the end of the block, I look behind me. No one is there. At the subway entrance, I look again. Still no one.

The train comes after three minutes. I sit near the doors with my bag on my lap and my phone in my hand. A man in a gray hoodie gets on at the next stop and stands by the pole. He doesn’t look at me, but I still watch his reflection in the dark window until he gets off two stops later.

This is what my life has become. I catalog strangers by proximity and threat level. The woman with the stroller is safe. The teenager with headphones is safe. The man sleeping at the end of the car is probably safe, but I don’t sit near him.

When I reach my stop, I wait until a group of women gets off and follow them up the stairs. They turn left toward the deli. I keep going.

My apartment building is four blocks from the station, on a quieter street lined with narrow brick walk-ups and bare trees. The laundromat on the corner is closed. The bodega is open, and the cat is sitting in the window beside a pyramid of oranges. Across from my building, the old walk-up with plywood over the first-floor windows sits dark.

A black car is parked in front of it. I stop walking. It sits half in shadow, engine off, windows dark. It could be anyone’s. It could be a driver waiting for someone, a neighbor’s boyfriend, a delivery guy taking a break.

Then the headlights flick on. Only for two seconds before they go dark again. My body reacts before my brain catches up. I run.

My bag slams against my hip. My keys cut into my fingers. I fumble the outer door code the first time and nearly sob when it rejects me. I punch it in again. The lock buzzes, and I shove inside so fast I hit my shoulder against the doorframe.

The lobby smells like radiator heat and lemon cleaner. I pull the door shut behind me and look through the glass. The car is still there. No one gets out. I take the stairs because the elevator is too slow. By the second floor, my legs are shaking. By the third, I’m crying. I wipe my face with the back of my hand and keep going to the fourth floor.

I unlock the door, slip inside, and lock all three locks behind me. Deadbolt. Chain. Extra latch.

My apartment is dark except for the lamp I left on beside the couch. It’s small and messy and familiar. My shoes by the door. A throw blanket over the armchair. Gallery catalogs on the coffee table. A mug in the sink because I left in a hurry this morning. A basil plant on the windowsill that’s been dying for three weeks.

I stand with my back against the door and try to breathe. Then I remember the number Maya gave me.

She sent it last week after I called her from the bathroom at work because I thought someone had followed me into the gallery. She said if the police wouldn’t take me seriously, I should at least talk to someone who got paid to be paranoid.

“I’m not saying hire them forever,” she told me. “Just call. Ask what it costs. Ask what they can do. Ask anything that makes me feel like you have a plan beyond hoping this creep gets bored.”

I open my contacts with my hands shaking. Maya is pinned at the top. Below her is the number she texted me, saved as Security Guy. I press call. It rings three times before going to voicemail. I start talking before I can lose my nerve.

“Hi. My name is Elena Hart. I’m sorry it’s so late. My friend Maya gave me this number, and I don’t know if this is how this works, but I think someone is following me.”

My voice shakes. I hate that it shakes, but I keep going.

“I live at 418 West Seventeenth, apartment 4B. There have been flowers and texts and calls for months. Someone keeps watching me from across the street, or I think they do. I know how that sounds. The police said there isn’t enough evidence, but tonight there was another bouquet at work, and the card said I looked tired this morning. No one saw me this morning.”

Something creaks in the hallway. I stop talking. The sound doesn’t come again. I lower my voice anyway.

“There’s a black car outside my building. I’ve seen it before. I know I have. I think he followed me home from work.”