Unfortunately, just as it had back home, the memory of a few nights ago and the man standing outside my window drags me back into its depths. Had I been exaggerating? Had I just been worked up overOliverand seen things that weren’t there? It isn’t a crime to stand across the street from my apartment, even if it seemed like whoever was there had been staring up at me.
“That’s dumb, Blair,” I sigh softly, and rake my fingers through my hair. I’m being weird for nothing, and I don’t knowwhy.
Is it because of the way I’ve been feeling lately? Whether or not the man from outside my apartment had been watching me, I can’t deny how I’ve been feeling or the sense that someone is right behind me, just out of sight, and that they want something from me.
I just can’t figure out what, or why, orwho, even.
Professor Solomon’s face flickers through my head, making me cringe. I can’t forget the sight of his face, his eyes, the way he’d just stared at me while Oliver kissed my throat.
Why hadn’t he looked away?
Better question for myself, I suppose, is why hadn’t I stopped Oliver? It isn’t like I wanted our professor to see, since there’s definitely a chance that it could come back to bite me in the ass with some kind of disciplinary action. Or perhaps he’ll just dislike me more in class tomorrow, though I’m not sure if that’s really possible.
Either way, I should go home. The rain really is starting to pick up outside, and I don’t want to get caught in some torrential downpour that’ll sweep me away and out to sea.
It only takes me a minute to stuff my books back into my backpack, and drain the rest of my cup so I can chuck it on the way out the door. It’s not cold enough for a jacket, exactly, butthat doesn’t stop me from wearing the cute, light-weight hoodie with the puppy on the front thatThrillingterrorsent me over a pair of denim shorts. I wave at the baristas, who wishes me a good day, and push my way out the door, staring down both sides of the sidewalk and seeing almost no one.
But really, had I expected anything else at this time on a Saturday?
It isn’t until I turn for my apartment in earnest that my steps slow, coming to a stop, and I look across the street where I need to go.
Is that him again? A figure covered in dark, loose-fitting clothes is leaning against a building I’ll have to pass. With his hands in his pockets and his head bowed, there’s no chance of me seeing anything about him. None at all, and somehow that makes it worse.
It’s probably nothing.
It’s probably no one that’ll hurt me.
It’s probablyfine, but the more I try to walk that way, the more my body protests. Finally, I give up; rerouting my steps in my head and remembering I can go down a couple of blocks, over, and up to get to my apartment from the opposite side. It’ll take about ten minutes longer, but it’ll be worth it to not have to deal or worry about this person jumping out at me to confirm all of my deepest, darkest fears.
Even when logic says he won’t do that, and that I’m making a big deal out of nothing. But for this morning, logic can eat a dick. I’m choosing comfort instead.
I take long strides down the block, crossing at the opposite street from where I need to, and travel another block quickly. This isn’t a difficult way to go, either. There’s still no one around, and I can walk as slow or as fast as I want. Which, this morning, means that my long strides eat up the distance between here and—
I stumble, nearly falling over the purse someone has so obviously thrown into my path as an obstacle. Rapidly I look down at it, confused, and see a small white purse with a delicate chain attached wrapped around my sneaker.
“What the heck?” I mumble, wondering if I’m about to be on one of those candid reality shows that have to do with finding a thousand dollars in the street. If so, I’m about to disappoint all the viewers by not donating it to charity.
Slowly, I unwind the chain and pick up the now-dirty purse. It sports my footprint on one side and grime on the other, but I open it anyway to see if I can figure out who it belongs to, since the surrounding streets are as dead as can be.
I fish around, finally finding a tiny pocket with a few cards placed into it. I grab all of them, hooking the chain over my arm as I do and bringing the cards up to my face so I can read them in the dingy light from the lamp above me. As I do, I try not to notice the way the rain soaks into my hoodie, or drips down my legs uncomfortably.
The first is a credit card, with the name MIKAYLA HAYES typed on it in raised, shiny letters. I run my fingers over the words, committing the name to memory, before moving onto another credit card that sports the same identification, but this time against a background of a black, fluffed up puppy. Moving that one as well, I finally find something that resembles an ID, though when I glance at the state, I see that Mikayla Hayes isn’t from St. Augustine, or even Florida at all. It seems she’s a resident of Indiana.
I blink once, then again rapidly as I try to make out the picture. Finally, at my wits’ end, I fish for my phone and yank it out of my pocket, turning the light on to illuminate the picture on the card.
I know her. The thought rings loudly in my head as I look at the woman who I’djustseen in the coffee shop not fifteenminutes ago. Black, glossy hair frames a pale, round face and bangs hang just over dark eyes.
This was the purse she’d been holding at the coffee shop, now that I’m thinking about it. I stuff the cards back into it and look around, confused. If this is her purse, where in the world is she? All I see are a couple of people across the street who haven’t even noticed me, and none of them are her.
Turning again, I take a few steps in the direction I’d been heading before. With her purse still clasped in my fingers, I’m not sure what in the world I’m doing, but I wish she’d just pop out of the woodwork and take it off my hands. She has to be looking for it, right? Surely she can’t go anywhere without her credit cards and ID.
My eyes fall on the cup a few seconds before my foot hits it, and I roll it around with the toe of my shoe until I can see the logo from the coffee shop I’d just been at. Ice is spattered on the sidewalk, and the lid lies a few feet away from the cup itself, like it was kicked or popped off spectacularly.
Is she okay?
I walk over to the lid, leaning down enough that I could pick it up if I want, but instead, just stand there and stare at it.
Surely something hadn’thappenedto her, right? It’s only been fifteen minutes since she was at the coffee shop. Had she fallen? I straighten and look at the fronts of the shops to my right, as if I’ve somehow missed an adult human leaning or sitting against one.