Page 11 of Keeping Knight

I’m so exhausted, it takes several seconds for his words to register. Just like the nurse who spoke to me earlier, and the police officers before that, everything seems like it’s coming from a great distance. Nothing wants to make sense.

“Miss Ashe?” he prods. His pen taps the clipboard in a quick, staccato rhythm. “It’s important that you have someone with you. If you’re alone, and your throat swells more than it already has…” He shakes his head. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

I know I need to answer him. I’m just not sure what to say.

Yes, there are people I could ask to stay with me. Or rather, stay with them, since my apartment is currently missing a front door and the living room window has a neat round hole in it from where the intruder cut the glass to get in.

“It’s not that difficult, unfortunately,” one of the police officers informed me. “Use a high-quality glass cutter to make a fist-sized hole near the lock. Then they can just reach right in and open the window. It’s one of the dangers of those old fire escapes. Access is far too easy, especially for an experienced criminal.”

I used to love my fire escape. One of my favorite things to do when the weather is nice is to put a little chair out there, bring a book and some freshly brewed iced tea, and just enjoy my bit of outdoor space for a while. I could go to one of the nearby parks, but I like having a spot that’s only mine.

The fire escape was actually one of the reasons I chose the apartment to begin with. After growing up watching countless movies and shows set in New York City, the fire escape had become synonymous—in my mind, at least—with the quintessential New York apartment. And when I saw my fire escape, I fell in love with the idea of having my own bird’s-eye view of the city.

Well, maybe not bird’s-eye. I’m on the fourth floor, not the fortieth. But still, I liked it. And in the ten years I’ve been living there, the fire escape has become one of my very favorite features of the apartment, along with the original crown molding and the worn herringbone floors.

My dad wanted me to buy something in a newer building—one with a full-time doorman and plenty of security and fancy amenities. But I wanted to live someplace with history. Character. I wanted to feel like I was living in my own version of the movies I’d always loved so much.

Since my dad was the one actually buying the place, he could have put his foot down. But I was his only child, and by his own admission, he couldn’t resist spoiling me. So, once he realized how much I wanted to live there, he agreed.

Ever since I lost my dad last year, my apartment has made me feel closer to him. There are memories everywhere, from the bathroom we renovated together to the vintage card catalog we drove all the way to Saugerties to buy at an estate sale. Sometimes, when I’m sitting on the couch watching TV, I can practically feel the cushions shift as if he’s sitting down beside me. I’ll catch a whiff of his cologne. I’ll be certain, if only for a moment, that I heard him laugh.

Just memories, of course. But they help on the days when I’m afraid I might forget him.

And now…

Now my apartment has been tainted by violence. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to forget the terror when that man attacked me. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel completely safe there again.

“I’ll fix the door,” Micah assured me while we waited for the police to arrive. Beyond the open doorway, half a dozen of my neighbors milled around, buzzing with curiosity and sneaking glances inside my apartment when they thought no one was looking. Micah’s best friend, Nico, was standing guard at the door, having rushed over there only minutes after Micah had called him. “I’ll have someone over here tonight to replace it. And the window, too.”

“You don’t have to,” I replied automatically. “I can do it.”

“I want to,” he insisted. “Besides, I’m the one who kicked the door in.”

To save my life, was the part he left out. If Micah hadn’t come back to my apartment when he did, if he hadn’t heard suspicious sounds coming from inside, or didn’t have the strength to kick down the door, I’d probably be dead.

A chill races down my back. For a moment, my lungs forget how to work.

I could have died tonight.

That man could have killed me.

I can’t kid myself that his intention was otherwise. His hands were clamped around my throat. His heavy weight had me trapped. By the time Micah started kicking at the door, I was on the verge of unconsciousness.

But why me? Was I just a random victim? Or was I targeted, like I heard Micah suggesting to his friends while he waited in the hallway for the doctor to examine me?

“I’m not leaving you,” he told me firmly as the paramedics hustled me into the ambulance. “No one’s going to hurt you again, Ruby. That’s a promise.”

Somehow, he convinced the paramedics to let him ride in the ambulance with me. And when we reached the hospital, Micah came right back into the exam area and stayed in my room until the ER doctor forced him to leave. I could tell Micah didn’t want to. But he grudgingly left, warning the doctor, “I’ll be right outside the door. Right outside. So if I hear anything…” Then he turned to me, and his expression softened. “If you need me, Ruby, just call out. I’ll be there before you can blink.”

In all the terribleness of tonight, Micah’s been the only good part of it. Rescuing me from almost-certain death to start, comforting me, staying by my side for hours, calling his friends from Fox & Falcon to help him protect me… I already knew I liked him. But seeing this new, protective side of him makes him even more appealing.

“Miss Ashe?” The doctor’s features pinch with concern. He sets the clipboard on the edge of the hospital bed and clicks his pen, turning on a little light at the end of it. He leans forward to shine the beam in my eyes. “Are you feeling dizzy? Disoriented? Nauseous?”

I flinch away from the bright light. “No. None of those—” My wounded vocal cords resist, and I swallow painfully before continuing, “I feel fine. My mind wandered is all.”

“Fine?” His bushy brows jump up his forehead. “Are you sure?”

I swallow again, and my hand instinctively comes to my throat at the resulting pain. “I’m sore,” I reply. “My throat hurts. But I’m not dizzy. Not⁠—”