Page 85 of Stay Awake
I scramble up from the camping mattress. It’s on the floor, which explains the ache in my lower back as I rise to my feet, disoriented and confused. Everything about this place is unfamiliar; the mattress, the odor of mildew seeping through the apartment. The newspaper clippings and paranoid writing slapped across the walls.
The apartment reverberates with another bang on the door. This time it’s more of an open palm slap than a pounding fist. It sounds as if whoever is on the other side is about to give up.
“Liv. Please. Let me in,” pleads a man with a British accent.
I’m wearing a sleeveless tight camisole and bikini underwear. Unsure of where my clothes are, I grab an oversized sweatshirt hanging off the closet handle and charge toward the front door.
“Who are you and what do you want?” I call out.
“Liv.” His relief is audible. “I’ve been so worried about you. Please let me in. It’s Ted.”
I step toward the peephole. A man in jeans and a brown bomber jacket is on the other side, looking furtively over his shoulder.
“I don’t know anyone called Ted.” I clutch the collar of the sweatshirt.
“Yes, you do. You don’t remember me, Liv, just like you don’t remember the apartment where you woke up. There are a lot of things you don’t remember. It’s too complicated to explain through a door. Let me come in and I’ll tell you everything.”
I’m about to unlock the bolt when I see a Post-it note taped to the doorframe. It says:DON’T OPEN THE DOOR TO ANYONE!!! Underneath I’ve written:EXCEPT TED.
I look through the peephole again. He rubs the back of his neck anxiously. Something tells me I can trust this man with rumpled tawny hair and dimples denting his handsome cheeks.
I turn the bolt and let him into the apartment. He comes in and immediately locks the door behind him, looking through the peephole to make sure he wasn’t followed.
“Liv, there’s not a lot of time to explain,” he says. “You’re in danger. I’ve rented an apartment where you can stay until we figure out what to do. Grab some clothes. We need to leave quickly.”
I barely hear him as my gaze takes in the dim mustard light of the apartment where I apparently slept last night. The old cracked leather sofa has stuffing coming out of the upholstery and the coffee table is covered with clutter and empty take-out cups of coffee. There are blister packs of medication strewn everywhere. I’m disgusted I spent the night in such a grimy place.
“Where am I? And who are you?” I ask.
The man puts his right hand into his jacket as if he’s taking out a weapon. I instinctively flinch, afraid he’s going to hurt me. He removes his hand slowly and produces a photo. It’s the two of us with our arms around each other, laughing into the camera. I’m showing off a sparkling diamond ring on my finger.
“This was taken the day I proposed to you, Liv.”
I’m speechless, transfixed by the expression of bliss on our faces. “Why don’t I remember you?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you everything. But first, I have to get you out of here, Liv.”
He goes into the bedroom and pulls clothes off hangers, tossing them into a duffel bag. He throws jeans and a top in my direction and I dress quickly as he packs. Next to the camping mattress is a phone with a cracked screen. I stick it in the back pocket of my jeans and cover it with a long cardigan with big pockets.
He’s in the living room, frantically rummaging through the clutter on the coffee table, when I come out of the bedroom, fully dressed in black-heeled ankle boots.
“Your journal, Liv. Where is it?”
“What journal?”
I stare in shock at the living room wall. “What the…”
The wall is covered with photos of Amy and Marco and a garbled mess of newspaper clippings. Arrows point in multiple directions between notes written directly on the wall.
“What is this?”
“I’ll explain later. We need to get out of here. You’re not safe. I’ll come back tomorrow to get your journal and anything else you need.”
He unlocks the door and opens it a fraction, sticking his head out to look down the corridor. We hurry down a dingy, airless corridor that smells of damp and greasy cooking fumes. Instead of taking the elevator, we sprint up the emergency stairs to ground level, where wecome out into an alley at the rear of the building. I move toward the street, but he blocks my way with his arm.
“Wait.” He steps out of the alley to check that the coast is clear.
He takes my arm and escorts me to a silver car parked farther down the street, which he unlocks with a remote-controlled key. He throws the duffel bag in the trunk and tells me to get into the backseat and lie low. He fires up the ignition before he even buckles up.
