Page 9 of The Voicemail

“There was a man forcing the door,” he says. “I arrived as he was trying to get inside. He had the gun. We fought. He ran toward the stairs when the neighbor came out.”

It’s simple enough, and almost true. It leaves out that I’m pretty sure he broke my stalker’s wrist, and that I swear I heard him threaten the man through the door.

I stare at Alex, probably a bit in shock. He doesn’t look at me.

The younger officer crouches near the gun. “Nobody touch this.”

The older officer steps toward my door. “Ms. Hart?”

I flinch because I don’t remember telling him my name. Then I realize the building directory is right downstairs, and my mailbox has HART written across it in peeling label tape.

“Yes.”

“Are you injured?” he asks.

“No,” I answer immediately. My voice sounds strange. Thin.

“Can we come inside and take a statement?”

I look back into my apartment. The doorframe is splintered around the deadbolt. The chain hangs loose. The extra latch is bent sideways. My lamp is still on beside the couch. My kitchen drawer is open because I pulled the knife out too fast. Everything looks the same and ruined at the same time.

“Please,” I say, ready to put this nightmare behind me.

Maybe now they’ll start taking me seriously. Maybe now we can get somewhere, and I can stop looking over my shoulder every time I leave the house.

Alex’s eyes move over my face.

“I can wait in the hall, if you’d like,” he says.

It’s a strange offer. I don’t know him. He’s here entirely by accident. But he did save my life. That’s worth a lot. He believed me when no one else did. Against my better instincts, I tell him, “You can stay by the door.”

As weird as it sounds, I feel safer having him here.

The officers come inside. My apartment is too small for all of us. The living room barely holds my couch, my armchair, and the coffee table stacked with gallery catalogs I always mean to put away. With two cops and Alex Russo inside, the walls seem to close in.

The younger officer asks the questions. I answer them. My name. My age. My address. Where I work. What time I got home. When I first noticed the car. Whether I saw the man’s face.

“No,” I say. “Not clearly. He was on the other side of the door.”

“But you saw the car?”

“Yes.”

“Could you identify it?”

“It was a black sedan.”

He writes that down.

I’m worried that he won’t believe me, just like the other officers haven’t. He’ll probably be dismissive and tell me there’s nothing they can do.

Except this time, there’s blood in the hallway, and a broken doorframe, and a gun that belongs to the man who tried to break in. A cold shiver runs through me and I wrap my arms around myself.

“I’ve filed reports before,” I tell the officer.

The younger officer looks up. “For this same person?”

I nod. “I think someone’s been stalking me for several months.”