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  “We’ve got to stop arguing about this,” I said. I felt my throat tighten. “What’s the point? I mean, there’s one thing we agree on, right? I’m in danger.”

  Ann-Marie glanced around. Her whole body shuddered. “The guy was in our apartment. Maybe we all are in danger.”

  Stepping into the apartment filled me with dread. But I knew I’d have to get over it. We headed right to the fridge. Luisa and I grabbed bottles of Rolling Rock. Ann-Marie poured herself a glass of apple juice. A new health kick?

  We sat down at the kitchen counter. The phone rang in my room.

  My hand shot out and knocked over my beer bottle. The cold beer puddled on the Formica countertop, then poured into my lap. I jumped to my feet.

  “Just lick it up,” Luisa said.

  My phone rang again. I turned toward my room. No answering machine to pick up.

  “Don’t get it,” Ann-Marie said. She grabbed a handful of napkins and began dabbing at the spilled beer.

  “I have to get it,” I said, my heart thudding. “My dad usually calls on Sunday.”

  “But if it’s the creep—?”

  “I’ll invite him over for brunch.”

  Ann-Marie’s mouth dropped open.

  Ha ha. Here’s Lindy, making jokes when she’s actually shaking with fright.

  Well, I don’t want to shake and tremble and spill my drink every time the phone rings. I’m not going to let some stupid creep make me afraid to answer the phone.

  I grabbed it off my dresser and clicked it on, feeling more anger than fear. “Hello!” I practically screamed the word.

  Silence at the other end. Then a throat being cleared.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  Soft, steady breathing.

  Oh no. Damn. Damn. Damn. Not again.

  “Who is this? Who the hell is this?”

  Hoarse breathing, rapid now.

  “Stop calling me! Just stop!” I shouted. “The . . . the police are tracing this call. They’ll be there in a few minutes. No lie. They’re tracing the call.”

  A soft whisper: “Oh, baby . . .”

  I clicked it off. My ear hurt from pressing the phone against it so hard. I stared out the window, trying to calm my throbbing heartbeats.

  Was it really someone I knew?

  Please . . . please let it be a stranger.

  Fighting down a wave of nausea, I pressed *69 to trace the call. After a few rings, a machinelike woman’s voice droned in my ear: “I’m sorry, but the number you are trying to reach cannot be reached in this way.”

  I let out an angry cry and tossed the phone onto my bed.

  “Who was it?” Ann-Marie hurried into my room.

  I shook my head. “The breather again. It was so totally gross. Why is this happening to me?”

  Before Ann-Marie could answer, the phone rang again.

  I could feel all my muscles tighten. “That fucking creep!” I seethed. I grabbed the phone and clicked it on. “Listen, you son of a bitch—!

  “. . . Oh. Hi, Dad. Sorry about that.”

  23

  Emails ... emails . . .

  Brad emailed. Said he had really good seats for the Allman Brothers at the Beacon Friday night.

  The Allman Brothers come every year to play for two weeks at the Beacon, a huge, converted movie theater in my neighborhood, and it’s a wild scene. The audience is bizarre and the band rocks them into a frenzy that usually spills out onto the streets afterward.

  An interesting invitation. But of course I emailed back and said the N-word. The big NO. I gave a lame excuse about having to visit a cousin in Forest Hills.

  I didn’t say anything like, “I don’t think we should see each other again,” or, “I’m getting serious about someone, so I have to say goodbye.”

  Frankly, I was scared to do that. I followed Tommy Foster’s instruction and said no to Friday night. But I was afraid that the one who threatened me would take a final NO as a challenge—a challenge to come get me.

  Keep seeing me. Don’t ever say no.

  Your life depends on it.

  I hadn’t forgotten the words of the ugly note in my dresser. In fact, I had memorized them. Sometimes I couldn’t stop them from repeating and repeating in my mind.

  There’s only one way to stay alive. Keep going out with me. Keep saying yes.

  Only one way to stay alive . . . but I said no to Brad. And when Jack emailed to say someone had given him tickets to an advanced screening of the new Indiana Jones movie, I said no to that, too.

  No, Jack. Can’t make it.

  Now what? Are you going to kill me?

  Isn’t this brave of me?

  But my hands shook and I missed the keys as I typed my replies.

  No, guys. I know I’m supposed to keep saying yes. But Tommy Foster must know what he’s doing.

  Right?

  Monday night, I’m online and Colin IM’s me.

  COLINOC: Lindy, r you there? How r u?

  LINDYSAM: I’m here. Where are you?

  COLINOC: Been thinking about you. A lot.

  COLINOC: Miss you.

  LINDYSAM: Are u in NYC? Where are you?

  COLINOC: Would you believe Rochester?

  My fingers were wet on the keys. My heart was pounding. I thought about Colin . . . about last weekend. So nice.

  Whoa. If Colin was in Rochester Saturday night, that means he couldn’t be the one who sneaked into my room. An alibi! And I wouldn’t have to say no to Colin.

  Yes. An alibi.

  LINDYSAM: When did u leave for Rochester?

  COLINOC: Been in meetings all day. But kept thinking about you.

  COLINOC: You could destroy my career!

  LINDYSAM: When did you leave?

  Please say Saturday!

  COLINOC: Left this morning. Went right to meetings. On

  to Toronto on Wednesday.

  Shit. There goes the alibi.

  COLINOC: U need a Webcam so I could see you.

  LINDYSAM: Sweet. Gotta run.

  COLINOC: Have a wedding next weekend. (Boring.) See

  you next week? ASAP? How about Saturday night?

  LINDYSAM: Email me when you get home. We’ll discuss.

  I couldn’t say no to Colin. I realized I had real feelings for him. By next week, the police might have the creep in custody. And I could be snuggling in Colin’s arms in his cozy apartment and telling him all about my frightening week.

  I wish.

  I hadn’t forgotten about Lou. I decided I wanted to confront Lou myself. I had the crazy idea that if I just accused him point-blank of stealing my clothes and leaving the note and calling me up and breathing into my ear, he’d cave immediately and apologize, and that would be the end of it.

  Yes, it was a crazy idea. More of a wish than an idea, I guess. But my mind clung to this plan. I needed something to cling to, some kind of hope that I could get out of it easily—and alive.

  So I cornered Lou in our apartment Monday after work. He and Ann-Marie were going out for a quick dinner in the neighborhood. Ann-Marie was in her room changing from her work clothes.

  He turned away when I entered the room. He had one hand on the front doorknob. I had the distinct feeling he didn’t want to see me.

  “Lou, we need to talk,” I said softly, glancing back to Ann-Marie’s door.

  He kept his eyes on the floor. “Lindy, I’m sorry about Saturday night,” he said, his cheeks bright red.

  Was he confessing?

  “Sorry?” I said, moving close to him so we could whisper. No point in upsetting Ann-Marie.

  “Out in the hall. I think I said some things . . .”

  I stared at him. “Well, yes.”

  “I don’t really remember what I said,” he whispered.

  “Annie and I kinda wrecked ourselves. I mean, I hope you don’t think I’m a bad guy or anything.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to think,” I said.

  Wow, was that honest!

  “Annie told me
about the break-in,” Lou said, finally raising his eyes to me. “That’s really cold. I mean, that’s out there. This guy is whacked.”

  “It’s scary,” I said, studying his face. He seemed totally sincere. Except one thick eyebrow kept sliding up and down on his wide forehead. Revealing that he was tense? That he was lying?

  Why am I reading Lou’s eyebrows? God, I’m paranoid.

  “The police will find the guy,” Lou said, tugging an ear. “He’s an amateur. They’ll get him. That letter he left you was total bullshit. The guy is just fucking with your mind, Lindy.”

  How do you know?

  “Hope so,” I murmured. My mind was spinning. I had Lou’s confession speech all planned for him, and he wasn’t cooperating. “It’s someone I know,” I said. “That’s what’s so scary.”

  Lou took my hand. “That’ll make it even easier for the cops,” he whispered. He had his eyes on my breasts.

  I heard a cough, turned, and saw Ann-Marie watching us from her bedroom door. I quickly pulled my hand from Lou’s. “You two seem awfully close all of a sudden,” she said, wrapping a bright blue fringed shawl over her shoulders.

  “We were just talking about stuff,” Lou said. He grinned at me. “I love it when she’s jealous.”

  Ann-Marie had the shawl tangled in the strap of her purse. She tugged hard at it. Lou hurried over to help her. “What were you talking about?” she asked.

  “Current events,” I answered quickly.

  I met Shelly for a drink Tuesday after work at a sports bar on Second Avenue. He wore a loose-fitting, navy Polo shirt over khaki cargo pants. He kissed me on the cheek, his blue eyes flashing, and we settled across from each other in a booth at the back.

  “How do you know this place?” I asked, straightening my hair.

  “It’s one of my bingeing places,” he said. “I go on weeklong booze binges every few months. I always drink until I’m hospitalized, and this is one of my hangouts.”

  I stared at him.

  He grinned, shaking his head. “That was a joke, Lindy.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” I felt really stupid for not catching on. But it wasn’t that great a joke—especially since I didn’t know Shelly that well. And after seeing his intense dancing at the club and his “Singing in the Rain” number that night, I could easily believe that he could go overboard sometimes.

  I squeezed his hand. “Next time you go on a booze binge, invite me to come along with you.”

  He laughed. “I can’t picture you totally loaded. I mean, actually falling-down drunk.”

  “Neither can I,” I confessed.

  “Ha ha. Here’s what you’d look like.” He jumped out of the booth and did his idea of me, staggering around crazily. He ended the act by falling over a table and landing facedown on the floor.

  Two concerned waitresses set down their trays and came running over to help him. Shelly climbed to his feet, brushing off the knees of his cargo pants. “I’m okay,” he told the confused waitresses. “I was just imitating her.”

  They turned their eyes on me. I could feel my face growing hot. “Don’t mind him. He has Tourette’s,” I said.

  The waitresses didn’t laugh, but at least they turned back to Shelly. “Did you order yet?” one of them, a short, pixyish blonde, asked.

  “Is he allowed to drink?” her partner asked me, pointing at Shelly.

  “It will calm him down,” I said.

  Shelly slid back in the booth. I ordered a glass of chardonnay. “Bring me a Corona with lime every ten minutes,” Shelly said. “And when I pass out, bring one every fifteen minutes.”

  The waitress rolled her eyes and walked away.

  “The little one is cute,” I said.

  He narrowed his eyes. “So you’re into girls?”

  “I just said she was cute, that’s all. Let’s change the subject. What’s up with the Polo shirt? And where’s that navy blazer?”

  He made an exaggerated sad face. “It died.”

  “The other night with me? While you were singing in the rain?”

  He nodded. “I gave it a hero’s burial. Want to have dinner after this? There’s a new barbecue place around the corner—”

  “I can’t, Shelly.” I held up my bag. “I have two manuscripts to read tonight.”

  “Tell me about your work. I’m fascinated,” Shelly said. He put his chin in his hand and stared across the table at me.

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “No. No way. I really am fascinated. Tell me about children’s publishing. Do you all walk around speaking in simple sentences? ‘Hi, my name is Lindy. Watch Lindy read. I can read a book.’ ”

  “Very funny.”

  It took a while, but Shelly finally settled down. I told him about my little cubicle and what I did all day. About my new book series. About Saralynn, the boss, and Rita Belson, the pain-in-the-ass.

  “Your arch enemy,” Shelly said. “Let’s kill her!”

  I stared at him. He had an evil grin on his face, his eyebrows sliding up and down. I knew he meant it as a joke. Of course he meant it as a joke. But the murder threat—the real murder threat—was always in the back of my mind.

  “How shall we kill her? We need to do it in children’s book style.” He rubbed his hands together gleefully, like a cartoon villain. “How about we force her to eat ten little ducklings? Aren’t there ten little ducklings in every children’s book?”

  “Shut up,” I said. “I don’t want to talk about killing people with ducklings.”

  His smile faded. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were sensitive about ducklings.”

  All evening, I’d been debating whether or not to tell Shelly about the mess I was in. I knew he could see that I was edgy, stressed. I felt tempted. It would be nice to have someone to confide in.

  Ann-Marie and Luisa were great friends, and they really would do anything for me. But the two of them never agreed about anything, and their arguments about what I should do were driving me crazy and, let’s face it, making me feel even more frightened.

  So it had been on the tip of my tongue all evening to say, “Shelly, can we be serious for a moment? Something really terrifying is happening to me.”

  But when he made the joke about killing Rita, something inside me clicked shut. Shelly didn’t do anything wrong—it was a stupid joke that anyone else would have brushed off, or maybe joined in—but it closed a door between us. And in that instant I decided to hold it all inside and not tell him anything.

  Instead, I said, “So how’s your writing coming along?”

  He blinked and his face fell into a thoughtful, almost troubled expression. “It’s coming along,” he said, “slowly.”

  “And what are you working on now?”

  He sighed. “I really can’t say. It’s a short piece. Slice-of-life stuff. Ha ha. That sounds impressive, doesn’t it? Sorta artsy?”

  “Shelly, you’re weird. You really won’t let me see anything you’ve written?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t. Because it’s about ten little ducklings.” He burst out laughing at his own dumb joke.

  “If I Google you, will I be able to find things you’ve written?”

  He frowned. All the color faded from his eyes. “Not really,” he said. “Remember, I told you I haven’t been published.”

  “So do you have a job? How do you make a living?”

  “Job?” He sneered at me. “No way. I write full-time. I have a very rich Mom. Very rich and very crazy. A real character, but she likes to write checks.”

  “She supports your writing? That’s really nice.”

  “Yeah, it’s nice. I can even pay for these drinks.”

  I’m going to Google him as soon as I get home, I decided. Maybe I’ll find out why he doesn’t want to show me his work. His whole personality changed when I asked him about his writing. What could he be writing that he’d be ashamed or embarrassed to show me?

  “Do you write porno films?” I blurted out.

  O
ops. Where did that come from?

  He laughed, eyes sparkling again. “No, I don’t. But do you want to make one? My apartment isn’t that far away.”

  “Ha ha. You’ll have to talk to my agent.”

  “Lindy, do you have a porno name? Everyone should have a porno name, don’t you agree?”

  I laughed. “What’s yours?”

  “I don’t know . . .” He thought for a moment, grinning at me. “Uh . . . Randy Buttcheeks. No. Wait. That’s too gay. How about Peter Allday?”

  “Yeah, that’s good. That has star quality. And what’s mine? Uh . . . wow. I’ve never played this game, Shelly.”

  “It’s a game?”

  “How about Lucy Goosey?”

  He shook his head. “Pitiful. You’ll be a children’s book editor for the rest of your life. But a sexy one.”

  “Thanks for the compliment.”

  A waitress set down the check on a little tray. “Want to know mine? It’s Britney Spheres.” She raised her hands to her enormous breasts. “Get it?”

  “Thanks for sharing,” Shelly said. He opened his wallet and dropped a gold Amex card on the tray. The waitress swooped it up and hurried off with it. “I’ll be right back,” Shelly said, and headed to the men’s room in back.

  I lowered my eyes to the table and saw a small card. It had his name on it in blue type. I picked it up. It must have fallen from his wallet. A business card:

  SHELLY OLSEN

  Sales Manager

  D & W Electronics

  “The Complete Store for Professionals”

  At the bottom, an address on lower Fifth Avenue and a bunch of phone and fax numbers.

  I stared at the card, scanning it again.

  What did this mean? He worked in an electronics store?

  He wasn’t a writer? Is that why he was so mysterious about his writing?

  Had he lied about being a writer?

  I swallowed. If so, what else had Shelly lied about?

  I saw him returning, snapping his fingers, smiling at me as he crossed the bar.

  I crumpled the card in my hand, and dropped it into my bag.