Page 84 of Stay Awake
“The cops in your office are going to arrest you once they know you’re there. The net is tightening around you. I can help you, Liv.”
“How?” I ask suspiciously.
“Your memory lapses. I’ll tell you what happened last night. I’ll tell you what you’ve forgotten.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because Ted asked me to take care of you. I’m outside your building. Come down now and I’ll explain everything.”
“I need to think about it.”
“You don’t have time.” His voice fades in and out as a police siren wails over the phone line. “Come down and I’ll tell you what happened. I’ll help you clear your name.”
Car doors slam in the background.
“That noise you just heard are more cops,” he tells me. “They’re coming up to your office to look for you. Come down now, Liv. I’ll wait for you outside the coffee place on the corner.”
“I don’t know.” I’m torn between fear of this stranger and an overwhelming desire to hear what he knows about me.
He senses my desperation to find out the truth. “Write my phone number on your hand in case you can’t find me,” he orders. He dictates a cell phone number and tells me to write above it the words “Call for help.”
“I’m waiting for you downstairs,” he says. “Come down now. Youdon’t have much time left until they come for you, Liv. Hurry.” The call disconnects with a click.
Two police officers stand near the reception desk. Their casual stance doesn’t fool anyone. It’s obvious they’ve been posted to guard the office entrance.
Someone turns up the volume of the TV. Synthesized theme music blares, drawing everyone to the TV like moths to a flame. The evening news is about to begin.
“Police are investigating the brutal murder of a magazine executive, who was found stabbed to death this morning,” the anchor says.
A photo of a smiling man with tawny hair and crinkled eyes appears on the screen. Everyone around me lets out an audible cry of shock at the sight of their colleague’s photo on the news.
“Police are asking the public to call the hotline if they have details of the victim’s whereabouts in the hours before he died. Police are particularly interested in finding a woman with long hair who was seen with the victim before his death.”
The anchor pauses for a moment. “We’ve just obtained CCTV footage taken outside the building where the murder occurred. Our sources tell us the woman seen fleeing the scene is the prime suspect in this morning’s murder.”
Grainy security camera footage shows a woman with long hair in a loose plait emerging from a dark lane. I stare dumbfounded at the TV screen. The only difference between me and the woman on the TV is that her hair is incredibly long, whereas mine is cropped short. That woman is me. I was there last night when Ted Cole was murdered. I’m the police’s prime suspect.
“Anyone who has seen this woman, or who has information on her whereabouts, should contact NYPD at the hotline…”
I’m barely conscious of the news anchor’s voice reading out the hotline phone number as I glance furtively at the huddle of horrified magazine staff. Someone is bound to notice the resemblance betweenme and the police’s prime suspect, despite our vastly different haircuts and the haziness of the image.
I need to get out of here. I can’t go through the main doors. The cops standing near the reception desk will stop me.
Everyone returns to their desks when the news program moves to another story. I pick up a file and go into the photocopy room near the back of the office where the emergency door to the fire escape stairs is located. I turn on the copier and print off a ream of blank pages to cover the sound of me pushing open the fire escape door and shutting it behind me.
I race down the stairs, taking them two at a time, until I’m in a rear alley, trying to decide where to go now that I know I’m wanted for murder.
Chapter
Forty-Seven
Two Days Earlier
Bang! Bang!Violent pounding rouses me from a deep sleep. There are three short bursts followed by a long knock that seems to go on for seconds after it’s finished.Baaaaang!!!
I bolt upright, confused. Instead of my usual view of the flower-box window in the apartment across the street, I’m facing a cracked wall covered with writing.
The banging resumes, louder than before. This time the person knocking rattles a door handle and calls out my name.
