She hated herself for asking, but she wasn’t quite bold enough—or maybe stupid enough—to just go along with something like that. Especially when she wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t been stalking her.
She braced herself for a sarcastic answer, or an unsettling one, and was caught off guard by the sweet, gentlemanly reply.
I won’t let anything happen to you.
That clinched it. Lennon isn’t someone to fear. If anything, he’s someone who will protect her.
Maybe she’ll even confide in him about the watcher.
A few times this week, she’s had that same uneasy suspicion that whoever killed the Toska family is still hanging around.
She’s read enough true crime books to know that isn’t completely far-fetched, because the killer always comes back.
Or has she simply read enough true crime books to conjure a sinister scheme where there’s nothing to worry about?
She hasn’t seen anything, so she hasn’t said anything, to Lennon or anyone else. Not yet.
She checks her phone. Two minutes.
Her thoughts return to Tuesday night. Her mother barely batted an eye when Stacey said she was taking the dog for a walk. Her father, just home after a long first day at work, told her to stay on the brightly lit, heavily populated main drag. Only Kato protested, giving a lazy little whimper as she fastened the leash on his collar and dragged him out the door.
She was relieved to find Lennon waiting for her in front of her house. Earlier, as she was doing her homework in her room, she’d lifted the shade several times to make sure no one was on the shed roof. As she and Lennon headed toward Edgemont, she was as concerned that her parents might be spying on them from the house as she was that someone else was out there, watching the house, watching her.
She supposed it wasn’t unusual to feel anxious that night, out with a boy for the first time in the city, or . . . ever.
But it wasn’t just that. She felt vulnerable. She kept thinking about the murders as they walked to the park. It wasn’t deserted, as she’d anticipated. There were other dog walkers, guys shooting hoops, loitering kids, old men playing chess.
She did notice a smattering of loners who might have scared her if she were on her own. But Lennon held her hand securely, and she finally felt safe. For a while. Until he pulled her off the path into a grove of trees and kissed her.
Then, she felt like she’d stepped off a precipice, whirling and twirling and not caring where, or whether, she landed.
One minute to go, but already there’s a rumbling approach and headlights in the tunnel.
She runs a quick hand through her hair and boards the front car. It’s crowded.
She looks for Lennon. By the time she realizes he’s not here, the doors have closed. Grabbing a pole as the train lurches forward, she awkwardly types a one-handed text.
Where are you?
The reply comes a minute later.
Just outside your station. Stopped. Congestion ahead.
Dammit.
On wrong train, she writes.
The message is met with a sad face emoji.
Three wobbly pinpoints appear, meaning he’s typing something, but her phone loses the signal in the tunnel.
She’ll have to ride to Brooklyn alone and wait for him. That’s fine. He won’t be far behind her.
It’s just that connecting on the train gives them extra time together, and time with Lennon is amazing, even if they’re just riding along on a subway that’s too crowded for conversation. Especially then, because it means they’re jammed up against each other.
They pull into the next station and her phone signal bounces back, vibrating with Lennon’s response.
Get off at Chambers Street and wait for me.
“Sorry, excuse me . . . excuse me, sorry . . .” Stacey shoves her way toward the door, pushing through the sea of passengers pressing forward to get on. She steps off the train as the doors close behind her.
Waiting alone again on a deserted platform, she thinks about Lennon. Ever since Tuesday, her thoughts have been focused on him. And schoolwork, when necessary. But that’s about it. She hasn’t been online, or watching TV, or reading. Even the triple homicide at her house no longer seems particularly frightening, or as fascinating as it did when she found out.
People shuffle onto the platform. A couple of middle-school-aged boys, an elderly nun, a businessman with a satchel. She moves a little farther away from him, in case he’s a creep, and closer to the nun.
Making eye contact, she offers Stacey a beatific smile and steps closer. “Hello, my child.”
“Hi.”
Her smile widens, and Stacey sees that she’s missing several teeth.
A headlight appears in the tunnel. The train is coming.
The woman produces a cup from the folds of her habit and holds it toward Stacey, revealing a masculine, hairy forearm.
“Got a few bucks to help my church?” She—he—shakes the cup, rattling change.
Unnerved, Stacey sidles away as the train pulls in, and Lennon’s dark head pokes out of the front car.
“Hey,” he calls.
“Hey,” she says, hurrying toward him, relieved when the doors close behind her, leaving the “nun” on the platform.
“I missed you.” He pulls her into his arms as the doors close behind her, holds her steady against him as the train jerks forward.
“I missed you, too.”
He’s wearing black and denim, same as always. He changes out of his school uniform before getting on the train, dress shirt and tie wadded up in his backpack. He smells like fabric softener and cigarettes.
He kisses her deeply, just like that first night they went to the park; just like every time since.
Pulling back is torturous, but she manages.
“What’s wrong?”
“People,” she whispers, close to his ear.
“What people? There’s no one around.”
No one equals a weary-looking man with a squirmy toddler on his lap and an elderly woman sitting with her head back, eyes closed. Neither is paying any attention to Stacey and Lennon.
“If you want to be alone, we can go to my house,” he tells her as they settle into a seat well away from the others.
“What do you mean?”
“Nobody’s home right now.”
“How do you know?”
“Promise you won’t tell?”
“Tell who what?”
He holds up his phone. “How I know where they are.”
“What do you mean? How do you know?”
He opens a screen and tilts it to show her a map with three scattered pin drop icons, each pulsating a different color.
He points to the pink one. “Here’s my sister. She’s still at school. That’s Brooklyn Friends.”
He zooms in on the screen and Stacey leans in to see that the pin is over a rectangle indicating a building near Borough Hall. Then he zooms out and shows her the other pins. The green one is Heather, in midtown Manhattan. The yellow is Jules.
“Where is she? Is that Boulevard Apothecary?” Stacey asks.
“Nope, next door—the Edgemont Grind. So we’re not going there today. Good thing I saw this.”
“Do they know you’re tracking them? Your family?”
“What do you think?”