Page 8 of The Voicemail

His candor catches me off guard. For months I’ve had no help from anyone. The police keep telling me I don’t have enough evidence. My coworkers act like I’m being paranoid. Yet here’s a complete stranger, a misdial, standing in my doorway because I said I was in danger.

My elderly neighbor from 4A is in the hall, holding his phone with both hands. His bathrobe hangs open over a white undershirt, and his mouth keeps opening and closing like he wants to speak but doesn’t have the words.

Behind Alex, a gun lies on the floor. I stare at it. He follows my gaze.

“It’s not mine,” he says casually.

That doesn’t make me feel better. Sirens rise from the street below. My neighbor must have called before he opened his door. For one sharp second, relief hits me so hard my knees almost give out.

Finally, the police will have a reason to listen to me. My stalker tried to break in. There’s evidence in my doorway of how he tried to push through. This Alex Russo person can tell them who he is. Maybe he can even give a description.

Alex wipes blood from the corner of his mouth with his thumb and glances back at me.

“Put the knife down before they get up here.”

“No,” I say, gripping it harder.

“Elena,” he says, and my name is a one-word protest.

That irritates me enough to steady my hand.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

His eyes stay on mine for a moment. Then he nods once. “All right.”

I expected an argument, but he just shrugs and looks past me into my apartment.

“Keep it down at your side, then,” he says. “If you’re holding it when they come up, they’re going to make this harder than it needs to be.”

I hate that he’s probably right. I lower the knife a few inches, not because he told me to, but because my hand is starting to cramp.

Footsteps pound up the stairs. Two uniformed officers come into view first, hands near their weapons. One is tall and broad with a shaved head. The other is younger, with rain on his shoulders and eyes that move too quickly over everything.

The broken door. The blood on the floor. The gun. Alex. Me.

The older neighbor raises his phone. “I called. I heard screaming.”

The older officer nods once without looking at him. His attention is on Alex. “Mr. Russo,” he says.

I look between the officer and Alex in confusion. They know him, and it seems like it’s not a casual acquaintance, either.

Alex gives him a calm nod. “Officer.”

The younger officer eyes the gun on the floor. “Whose is that?”

“Not mine,” Alex answers for me. “It belongs to the man who was trying to break into this young woman’s apartment, but I didn’t get anything out of him. And I’d bet there’s no serial number on that gun.”

The younger officer nods and moves to tape off the area around the gun. I watch, transfixed. What the hell is going on? Who is this guy?

“What’s your relationship to the victim?” the first officer asks Alex.

Alex smirks as he looks from me to the officer.

“We’re old friends,” he lies. “She called me this evening to tell me someone was outside her apartment, and I just happened to be in the area.”

I stare, open-mouthed, between Alex and the cop, who only nods and writes it down.

“We’re not—” I start, but Alex cuts me off.