Chapter 1
The door was already open when I got home.
That was the first wrong thing. I had locked it that morning, two turns of the brass knob, the way I always did in that building on the third floor. The hallway had that old radiator hiss and the smell of someone cooking onions downstairs. My key was still in my hand. The dark wooden door stood cracked an inch, light from the table lamp inside spilling thin and warm across the scuffed floor, and a man's boot was planted just over the threshold on my side of the mat, like he belonged there.
He stood behind me before I could step back. I hadn't heard him move. His hand was already on my shoulder, heavy through my white blouse, fingers spread, and my other hand was still reaching for the wall switch I always hit first. Warm lamplight showed the exposed brick, the little radiator under the window, the floorboards I knew by heart, and him, too close, his black jacket brushing my hair. He was calm. I wasn't.
My name is Elena and I was twenty-nine and I had lived alone in that apartment for eight months.
It was just past eleven. I remember because the bus had been late and my phone said 11:07 when I checked it on the sidewalk, and the entryway was supposed to be dark until I flipped that switch. The switch was right there, cream plastic, a little glossy from years of hands. I went for it. His grip tightened.
I didn't see his face at first, only his chest at my back, his arm coming around. He moved like he'd been waiting and knew exactly how much room he had. The brass knob caught the lamp light. My pulse hit my throat. I tried to twist toward the hall, toward the stairs, and his other hand came up and covered my mouth.
His palm was large and warm and it sealed off my breath. I made a sound that didn't go anywhere. His stubble brushed my cheek as he leaned in. I could hear him breathing, heavy and controlled, and I could hear mine, fast and thin through my nose. I bit down hard on the meat of his hand. He flinched but didn't let go right away, his fingers flexing against my jaw, my lip caught against my teeth. I tasted skin and panic. I drove my elbow back and hit jacket, not bone, and he absorbed it without a grunt.
"Don't scream. I'm not here to hurt you."
He said it low, right against my ear, each word even. He wasn't out of breath. I was.
I tore my mouth free enough to gasp. My shoulder was still pinned under his hand, my back still inches from his chest, the little switch two inches from my fingertips and useless. I stared at the brick, at the lamp, anywhere but his eyes, then I forced myself to look up at him.
"Then tell me what they want from me."
May you like
My voice came out smaller than I wanted, hoarse from that gasp. He didn't answer. His hand had dropped from my mouth but it hovered near my face, ready, and his other hand slid off my shoulder just enough to let me turn. We ended up facing each other in that narrow entryway, the open door at our backs letting in cold air from the hall, warm light from the lamp behind him cutting his face in half. He was older than me, dark wavy hair pushed back, stubble, black shirt and black jacket, black boots planted wide like he was blocking the only way out without having to touch me again. His eyes moved slowly over my face, not threatening, just reading. I kept my hand near the switch and didn't flip it.
I waited for the answer that didn't come. The light buzzed faintly. Somewhere below, a door closed. His mouth stayed closed, his breath evened out, and mine didn't. We stood inches apart in that doorway and the lamplight started to dim, or my eyes did, until the edges of the brick went soft and the whole room seemed to hold its breath with us, the question still hanging in the air between us and the dark hall still open at my back.
