I hesitate for a split second, then I press send.
Why am I doing this? Why am I bothering him on a Friday night, when he has basically told me he wants nothing to do with me? How come every time I feel terrible, my first instinct is to go to him?
And he’s not responding, which shouldn’t be a surprise. So that’s that.
But then a text pops up on my screen:Nora?
Oh right, he didn’t know who I was because he didn’t have my number. But he figured it out pretty easily.
Yes, it’s me.
I half expect him not to respond again, but after three dots are on the screen for what feels like an interminable amount of time, he writes back:Is everything OK?
Yes. Of course, that’s not the truth. Everything is definitely not okay. But I feel like I need to explain myself.I just want you to know, I’m not like my father. I hope you don’t think that. He’s a monster.
When I looked into my father’s eyes yesterday, the same color as my own, I felt the difference between us. He’s a cold-blooded murderer. Even after all these years in prison, he hasn’t changed. I’m not like that. Despite what he said to me.
There’s a long wait while Brady is typing. I hold my breath, wondering what he’s going to say. Finally, his reply appears on the screen:
I know.
I look at my watch. I’ve got to get home to meet the security guy. I shouldn’t have been chatting with Brady. I should have been finishing up my work here, but it’s too late for that now. I’ll have to finish my documentation later tonight, likely in my kitchen with a TV dinner.
I arrive back at my house a few minutes after eight. I expect to see the security guy’s van waiting for me there, but instead, the street outside my house is empty.
I stay in my car. I don’t even want to go into my house until I’ve got the security system in place.God only knows what I’ll find in there today.
Except another fifteen minutes goes by and there’s no sign of the man who was supposed to install my security system. I received a confirmation email earlier today, so I open up my email to see if I got the time wrong. Except when I open my email, there’s another message from the security company:
Sorry you had to reschedule your appointment! This is a confirmation that we have rescheduled you for Monday morning at 8 AM.
I stare at the email, my head spinning. Is this some kind of joke? I didn’t reschedule the appointment! Why would I do that after I was so desperate to get the guy to come tonight?
I try calling the number for the company, but of course, it’s after hours so nobody picks up. Wonderful.
I look over at my house. At the black windows. I don’t want to go in there alone.
So instead, I go to my text messages. And I write one to Brady:Any chance I could come over now?
His reply comes almost instantly:
Sure.
Chapter 42
I don’t know what exactly I’m expecting when I drive over to Brady’s apartment. All I know is I don’t want to be alone right now. Not when whoever killed those girls is capable of getting into my house. Maybe Brady will let me spend the night with him. Then I’ll get a hotel for the rest of the weekend.
It’s not just that I want company. I wanthiscompany. I’m not looking forward to that tiny, cramped apartment, but whenever I think of crawling into his bed and spending tonight in his arms, I get a good warm feeling. Even better than what I get from an Old Fashioned.
I might really like this guy. Of course, it can’t go anywhere. But I can enjoy it for the moment.
When I pull up in front of the broken-down old house where Brady is renting the second floor, his landlady Mrs. Chelmsford is on the porch as always, wearing a long white nightgown. But this time she’s not alone. That middle-aged woman from the drugstore—her niece—is talking to her. Mrs. Chelmsford is standing up, and she’s crying andshouting something that I can’t make out because she’s so hysterical. Even from here, I can see drops of spittle flying out of her mouth.
The last thing I want is to get involved in this mess, but before I can slip around back to Brady’s apartment, the niece has sprinted down the steps and is walking over to me. I take a step back, wishing I could get back into my car, drive off, and come back later. But it’s too late.
“Hi there.” Mrs. Chelmsford’s niece flashes me an awkward smile. “I’m so sorry about this commotion here. You’re Brady’s friend, right?”
“Right,” I say tightly.
