“Oh, yes, sorry. Just had a fright.” I try to laugh it off so I don’t worry her, but it clearly sounds fake.
I rush to pick up the groceries, shoving them back in my bags. Ms. Arkin crouches down and helps me, which just makes me feel worse. Once I’m standing, grocery bags repacked and in my hands, I expect her to leave. But she just watches me.
“Are you sure you’re alright, Stephanie? I’m sorry to ask again, but I would be doing a disservice to your grandmother if I didn’t.”
I take a deep breath, plastering on an even smile. “Yes, I’m alright. I thought a spider crawled out of the flowers. Silly, really.” I force my shaking hands to calm as I get my key out of my purse and unlock my door. It seems to placate her because she heads back toward her open door.
“Alright, well, I’ll bring over some of my lavender cookies later, they have calming effects.”
“That would be lovely.” I let my smile brighten even more and leave it there until she closes her door. Then it drops.
I stare down at the pink monstrosities again, and all I feel is anger. Pure, unadulterated anger.
Who does he think he is?
I kick one of the bouquets into my apartment.
Trying to mess with my head?
I kick another bouquet, the petals flying off.
Luring me into a false sense of peace?
I kick two bouquets this time with such force a professional soccer player would be proud.
I think fucking not.
I kick the last bouquet, my toe hitting something hard. I hear it go clanking into my apartment.
Weird.
I step inside, slamming the door closed behind me. I leave my groceries on the floor and search the ground for what could’ve made the noise, toeing through the strewn, bruised petals—but I find nothing. My amped up brain must have shorted out.
I stare at the broken bouquets on the floor. As offensive as they are, I can’t be bothered cleaning them up. I’d set fire to them if it wouldn’t burn down my apartment, and Chase doesn’t deserve that satisfaction.
Dammit, I need to figure out how the hell he is getting in here and setting them up.
I pick up my groceries, noting a wet spot on the ground. Groaning, I set them down again and peer inside. Yup. My jar of olives cracked.
Sighing, I trudge with the groceries to my kitchen, emptying out the dry bag before salvaging what I can from the olive-soaked one. My head twinges, a headache forming. My entire body feels drained from that one single moment, my emotional reserves depleted.
I get everything squared away, deciding to attack my chocolate-covered pretzels—which Aleks got me addicted to—while zoning my brain out with a cozy video game. But because I can’t have anything nice today, apparently, I trip over my rug, mere feet away from the couch. My arms pinwheel to correct my balance while still holding on to the bag of pretzels. I stumble a bit but remain upright.
Those flowers must be cursed.
I look back at the offending rug, ready to cuss out the inanimate object, when I spot something stuck under it. I toss the pretzels onto the couch, crouching down to stick my hand under the green woven material. My fingers close in on a rectangular chunk of plastic.
It’s a flash drive with a note strung onto the end.
Dread courses through me as I open it, reading the scrawled word.
Bullseye
“What?” I mutter to myself. Frowning, I turn the flash drive over in my hand.
Obviously, there is something on the USB. However, I’ve watched enough TV shows to know that there could be some malware on this thing that could attack my computer. I doubt Chase has enough skill to pull that off, but it doesn’t mean he couldn’t hire someone to do so.
I head into my bedroom, rummaging in my closet for a specific box. My fingers close around the gray box, and I tug it out, popping off the lid. I bought a cheap laptop when I studied abroad in Aix-en-Provence, afraid that someone might steal my expensive one. I never got rid of it, just threw it into my memorabilia box when I returned.
I crawl over to an outlet, plugging the laptop in and powering it on. I snort at the screensaver that pops up, a photo of me and my friends dramatically posing outside Cezanne’s studio. I type in my password three times before getting the correct one.
I thumb the flash drive, twirling it between my fingers. Stalling isn’t going to change whatever is on this thing. I push it open to reveal the USB and insert it into the laptop.
The computer chirps, registering the device. When my computer doesn’t have a complete meltdown from malware, I click on the drive and wait for it to open. There is just one folder. It’s labeled “To Be Shared.” I tap on it, and my body temperature drops.
A bunch of .jpg files pop up joined by one .mov file.
Oh god. Did Chase film us? Are these photos of me?
I never sent him any nudes…but that doesn’t mean he never took any of me. He was always on his phone, and we were together for years. I didn’t look for cameras hidden anywhere, but why would I? Whose natural inclination is it to even do that?
My heart thumps heavily in my chest.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
I double-click on the first file, holding my breath as it loads.
The image generates, and I’m…
Confused.
I tap on the right arrow, and the next image loads. Then the next. And the next. And the next.
My blood turns to ice as I see a pattern forming, a story unfolding. Some of the pictures are annotated, little notes and arrows decorating them. There are collages weaving images together, connecting threads.
Bile rises in my throat.
I get to the last image and hesitate. My finger trembles over the mousepad.
Eventually, I tap the final file. The video loads with an ugly play button front and center.
I click on it.
I watch the entire one minute and twelve seconds.
I’m glad I’m sitting.
Because my entire world just fell out from under me.
***
I step into the elevator sopping wet, hitting the penthouse button with my knuckle.
Francis was horrified when he pulled up to my apartment complex to find me standing on the curb in the pouring rain. It probably made matters worse that I was holding a disheveled bouquet of roses in one hand, a plastic bag full of cookies in the other, and said no words to him at all during the forty-minute drive.