Kalorama Road E-Book

E. Denise Billups

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Her memories died, but the dead won't let them sleep.

There's something Allie can't remember; hidden memories that refuse to surface. Until one day, when something brings back images of a forgotten night.

A year after graduating from Emsworth University, Allie receives a mysterious email asking a single question. Someone wants her to remember, and they are getting closer. As forgotten memories gradually surface, Allie has to come to terms with her dark past, and a revelation she could have never imagined.

What really happened at 1414 Kalorama Road?

Leseprobe

Kalorama Road

E. Denise Billups

Copyright (C) 2018 E. Denise Billups

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Books by E. Denise Billups

Novels

By Chance

Chasing Victoria

Kalorama Road

Short Stories

Ravine Lereux

The Playground

Rebound

For those I cherish

* * *

I'm not afraid to die. I've always believed I would die young. But not this soon, not here, not tonight, and not by those hands. Surrounded by tattered, aromatic petals, a dark silhouette watches my naked, bleeding flesh. I tilt my head, an eternally engraved image, a tormenting ghost—an inescapable, haunting memory. Sweet, soft, rose petals, a lifelong obsession. How Ironic. Maybe what we cherish is near at death, some sign of mortality, some hint of what we become. A cold breeze scented with roses, an invisible trail across dark soil, awaiting discovery. Finally, he's here…

Part One - Forgotten

Prologue

IT'S COMING. I know it is. Restless and awaiting the hour, I watch seconds tick … Fifty-sevepn … Fifty-eight … Fifty-nine … Midnight. Like clockwork, my cell phone chimes, announcing an email that arrives every month for the last two years. A reminder from an anonymous sender, posing an unanswerable question that won't let me forget one memory-less night. It's torture. A night I wish never happened haunts dreamlike, vaporous, appearing and receding with crushing anxiety, preventing me from seeing clearly. I should have listened to my instincts and never gone to that off-campus party. But as Grandma Blu always said, “What's done is done.”

Often, I've pondered what-if scenarios and wished I could rewind time. Especially when I revisit the hesitant moment in my dormitory vestibule, debating whether to stay or go to the off-campus party. I took the latter choice and bolted from the dorm into the chilly autumn night toward the waiting Jaguar's tinted windows. Grandma Blu's warning, “Never get into stranger's cars,” roared loud. But the person behind the wheel wasn't a total stranger, although we'd never spoken before she invited me to the party. For an entire semester, we sat two rows apart and barely acknowledged each other's existence until she appeared one day after class.

Lively and wielding a smile, she'd approached with curious eyes, sized me up like a tailor, and invited me to a party. Her odd approach left me more than hesitant. Why after three months the sudden interest? She'd introduced herself as Belle, a sweet and innocent name unsuitable for someone so brazen. But she was beguiling, upbeat, and fun. I couldn't resist and accepted her invitation. In retrospect, I should have said no. But you didn't, Allie.

The closer I'd grown to the car, the louder Grandma Blu's warning screamed in my mind. “Never get into a stranger's car unless you're one-hundred percent sure.” I lacked one percent assurance of the blond from Literature 301. Cautiously, I'd approached the Jaguar, and searched tinted windows for the obscured driver. The car door flew open, and Belle leaned toward the passenger side. Her lips curled a smile as she'd said, “Girl, it's freezing. Get in.” I did in awe of her stunning transformation. She was no longer the fresh-faced nineteen-year-old student in jeans and T-shirt but dressed in a black dress with heavy charcoal eyeshadow that framed thick, false eyelashes. Her hair, blown silken blond, had transformed Belle into a sexy siren.

As we drove past Emsworth University, Bell grew silent. The farther we traveled from campus, the more anxious I'd become. Most off-campus parties were within walking distance, but this I hadn't expected. Past Kalorama Square, I'd wanted her to turn the car around. My instincts in overdrive reared me conscious of landmarks in case I found myself without a ride back to the dorm. As a girl, I'd often imagined what I'd do if kidnapped by dangerous stranger's grandma had alluded to. I devised a plan to memorize surroundings, street signs, and landmarks, but I never conceived a foolproof escape. When I think about it now, the imagined getaway was incredibly comical. But the farther we traveled from campus, the sharper my alarm. I'd revisited childish musings and studied the route past Kalorama Square.

The car slowed at an impressive home, swiveled into the driveway and through retracting garage doors. At the time, I believed it was Belle's family's home given access inside. When the car halted, and the garage door closed, I began to worry. We entered a space more grandiose than its exterior and much too extravagant for a student party. I'd expected a home swarming with college students, not silent halls, and thought we were the first to arrive until voices emanated from remote spaces.

Belle led me into a billiard room through sparse guest, delivering me to a wide-eyed teenage girl seated at an open bar. “Allison,” Belle had said in a sweet, apologetic voice, “I have to take care of an urgent matter.” She motioned to the puckered-browed girl, “She'll take care of you until I get back.” She leaned into her ear and whispered quickly. The girl shook her head; I'd assumed a yes to whatever was said. Belle smiled. “I'll be back in a jiffy.” She vanished, leaving me in a room of mismated young women and older men, which looked like a secret society. And from their stares, I'd sensed I was the evening's main course.

Belle never returned, and the young woman abandoned me at the bar. A fiftyish looking man slid into the empty stool beside me and introduced himself as Pennington. His eyes consumed every inch of me, and I grew anxious. Pennington placed a drink in my hand. A delicate flute with a cobalt rim contained a mixture much too sweet—sugared I'd assumed to conceal alcoholic potency. When I finished, he refreshed my glass with more intoxicating liquid.

Soon, strangely disoriented, figures blurred, my body, a distant island, appeared detached from my head. An urgent need to flee swept over me. Then Pennington refreshed my drink again. His fingers stroked my arm as if sampling a delicate fabric. I smiled and glanced away, sensing his eyes on my body. He'd whispered, “Don't be afraid, everyone's here to have fun. Just relax.” Then I felt his hand on my thigh. Incensed, I pushed him away and staggered from the room in search of Belle.

Stumbling through the home, I wandered upstairs on invisible legs, floating with a giddy high, arriving at the landing. When I approached a small, moonlit alcove, a concerned man had asked, “Sweetheart, are you okay?” His words sounded miles away. My lips parted, but words wouldn't come. On wobbly legs, I continued down the hall in search of Belle and followed echoing voices to the first door. With fading hands, I twisted the knob, and the door squeaked open. Several images blurred into view, shadows I couldn't distinguish. Like a camera lens, my mind snapped shut and opened the next morning. The previous night was a blank canvas. Several months later, fuzzy images would appear and recede quickly.

I've never determined the number of people in that room. However, I've pondered inebriated double vision. Though never certain, I suspect something evil happened in that house, and the resultant amnesia acts as a shield, protecting me from wicked horrors. With a deep sigh, I drag my mobile from the nightstand, and as I'd expected, my anonymous sender's address appears with a single, bold, small-capped question.

Do you remember what happened at 1414 Kalorama Road?

1 We Meet Again

THE LAST TIME I saw Allison was two years ago. She sat alone on Emsworth University's campus quad steps talking on her mobile, oblivious to autumn's first snow dusting the campus white as she gazed at her Ugg clad feet. A black ski parka hugged snug around her slender figure. A beige wool ski cap framed worried brown eyes. Her bee-stung lips puckered and curved with hushed words. Despite obvious distress, I thought she looked more beautiful than I'd ever seen.

Hesitantly, I'd approached and sat across from her with concern. She glanced up for a minute, and in that instant, I'd wanted her to recognize me, but when she didn't, I figured it best she hadn't. Intently listening, her low voice rose and fell an octave with alarm as she spoke about the off-campus party three days prior. Worried something horrible happened; her pitch intensified a fearful trill. Allison's anguish had wrenched my heart and conscience, prompting a consoling need to reveal Kalorama Road's treachery, but I couldn't. Self-conscious, her eyes flitted about the quad and met and held my gaze an eternal second. And as I'd suspected, she'd forgotten everything, including me.

Now, here I am, two years later, about to see Allison again and worry her memory has returned. Ahead, a slanted building and large, red number nine graces the sidewalk like artwork, proclaiming my arrival at 9 West 57th Street. Distracted by memories of Allison, I enter her office building's revolving door, unaware I've circled past the exit twice. On the third rotation, I jump through the egress into a glassy lobby, and just in time, rescue my coattail from swift-moving flaps. More alert, I approach the security desk.

“I have an appointment with Allison Bertrand at McClelland.”

“May I see your identification?” The security guard asked.

“I'm thirty minutes early,” I said, pulling my driver's license from my wallet.

He shakes his head. “It's okay as long as someone's there,” he said, checking the computer and calling upstairs to confirm my appointment. “Mr. McThursten is here to see Ms. Bertrand … Okay,” he said, hanging up with a smile. Returning my driver's license with a guest pass, he points toward the left. “Thirtieth floor, elevator bank two.”

“Thanks,” I said, following his directions, arriving at a talking elevator.

Unknowingly, my father has thrust Allison back in my life. If he hadn't sent my manuscript to McClelland Publishing, I wouldn't be here. I had no intention of publishing the book. When I heard Allison's voice on the phone, I didn't know who she was until she revealed her name on the second call. I couldn't believe the fawned-eyed student from Emsworth University who'd entered my life one harrowing night had my manuscript. What are the odds of that? I couldn't resist seeing her, so here I am, ten floors from her office, wondering if her memory has returned. If so, will she remember me? The elevator opens in front of two large glass doors, and in that instant, I consider not entering, but the elevator doors close, squeezing and forcing me out. A gray-haired receptionist looks up and buzzes me in.

“Mr. McThursten, you're early. Allison will be here soon. You can hang your coat over there,” she said, pointing to a closet by the door.

I proceed to hang my trench, and when I turn around, the gray-haired receptionist is standing behind me.

“Allison just called. She's minutes away. Meanwhile, you can wait in the conference room until she arrives,” she said, leading me toward a room near the windows. “Can I get you coffee or tea?”

“No thank you. I'm fine.”

“She won't be too long. Help yourself to magazines,” she said, pointing at the side table and closing the door with a smile.

Too tense to sit, I approach the window and stare at Central Park's rectangular green, running through a city of cement skyscrapers thirty stories below. But Allison's fawn eyes and the stolen kiss takes precedence over city views. A kiss I can't forget. Will she remember? If she does, I'll have no choice but to tell her the truth. I glance at McClelland's clock. In twenty minutes, I'll find out.

2 Have We Met?

GOD, I CAN'T BELIEVE I OVERSLEPT.

Bypassing Fifth Avenue's congestion, the taxi winds across Central Park toward 57th street, through cherry blossom-covered trees, gripping me with spring fever, but the anonymous email still sits foremost in my mind. I dismiss the mysterious message with thoughts of Ryan McThursten, the reluctant author I'd hounded for months until finally, he'd agreed to meet and discuss a contract with McClelland Publishing. With my luck, Ryan will change his mind and decline McClelland's offer again.

Nonetheless, I seldom have high expectations of others. Since my parent's divorce and the troubling, off-campus party, I always expect the worse, believing any moment, an unforeseen, life-altering event will upend my world. For me, at least, happiness is a fleeting fantasy, a pendulum that swings cold, warm, and occasionally hot. I prefer a tepid medium between content and discontent, knowing at any moment life can swerve without warning. But for now, I welcome spring's temporary bliss, knowing over twenty-four hours emotions will sour.

I dial the office and tell the receptionist I'm in a taxi five blocks away. I'm surprised but thrilled when she says Mr. McThursten has arrived. Of all days to oversleep. The cab exits the park, speeds past the first traffic light, and I pray it's nonstop the entire way. The taxi races through the second yellow light with a sharp left turn, arriving at the building's side entrance. I exit the cab and hurry upstairs breathlessly.

Joy evaporates the moment I enter McClelland. The receptionist's worried expression and the office's ominous hush feels like a bombshell ready to explode. Although for weeks, employees have been aware of McClelland Publishing's merger with SNC Media; I sense another disaster waiting to happen. Softly, I walk toward the temp who's replaced our regular receptionist. A retiree, I'd learned, who returned to work when she lost her savings in the previous recession. It's bothersome seeing her support everyone. She should be enjoying her retirement.

She looks up with a pleasant smile and states, “Mr. McThursten's in Conference Room A.”

“Thank you,” I said, staring at my wristwatch. Ryan is early. But he's here, and God knows it was a struggle getting him to the office. If he waits too long in the conference room, he might change his mind again. “Send him down in five minutes,” I said, hurrying to my office. I'm eager to meet the talented author whose novel I discovered in the slush file. But most of all, I'm anxious to see the reluctant man who rudely hung up on me.

Two months ago, I was bewildered why McClelland rejected the captivating novel. Surely it was a mistake. Soon after I found the manuscript, I'd called the author to part good news, expecting an elated response. But when I'd stated enthusiastically, “This is McClelland Publishing…” he'd interrupted before I could finish my sentence. “I'm not interested in publishing my book, but thanks for the call.” And then he hung up. His indifference hadn't fazed me. It seems every way I turn, something blocks my attempt at fulfillment, but I persisted. His disinterest explained why the manuscript was in the slush file, but his attitude left me more perplexed.

Despite the nippy dismissal, I was glad whoever resigned the manuscript hadn't deleted it. I couldn't imagine this story unpublished and relentlessly pursued the author with gentle supplications via voice mail. After several appeals, he finally answered my call, apologized for his initial response, and agreed to a meeting.

In my office, I throw my bag under the desk and quickly open the manuscript, but before I can check my face and hair, I hear my name.

“Allison?”

“Yes?” In the doorway, my wide-eyed coworker beams at the attractive man by her side. I confess, I'd taken a siesta from men, but my heart woke with an instant and unexpected attraction. He could be a cover model for McClelland's romance novels. I'm pleasantly surprised by his age and appealing six-foot frame. I hadn't expected him to be so attractive. Every fiber of him exudes sex. Washboard abdomens, hugged by a bright white T-shirt, appear beneath a gunmetal blazer. Dark-washed denim exposes a slight bow in his long legs. From his writing, I'd expected someone older, not a twentyish looking hunk. Immediately, I ponder the flaws beneath his gorgeous skin.

“This is Ryan McThursten.”

Before I can respond, a curious breeze stirs the manuscript, sending pages flying across the room. Ryan rushes in, retrieving and piling the disheveled papers atop my desk. The strange breeze abates, and the office quietens.

“That was strange,” I said, unable to take my eyes off Ryan.

He looks toward the door where Catrina stares with an amused smirk. “It was probably air pressure when the door opened.”

I twist my lips dubiously. “That door opens and closes throughout the day and has never caused a stir like that.” But I don't overthink it.

Ryan extends his hand and grins—I'm sure at my awed expression. Embarrassed, I return his firm grip and assume a professional demeanor. “Please, take a seat,” I said, examining his wrist swathed in bracelets. No wristwatch, perhaps why he arrived early. Amusingly, I catch Catrina still beaming at the entrance. “Thanks, Catrina.” Wide-eyed, open-mouthed, and with rapid fist thumps against her chest, she slowly closes the door. I stifle a laugh and settle my eyes on Ryan.

“Can I get you something to drink, coffee or tea?”

“No, thank you, I'm fine,” he said.

His voice stirs something familiar. Have I met him before? I open my mouth, ready to inquire, but banish the question quickly. Impossible, I would remember him. A sweet fragrance fills the room, much too floral for a man's cologne. Maybe it's Catrina's perfume.

“Are you okay?” Ryan asked.

The scent engulfs the area. “Do you smell that?”

“Yes, I thought it was your perfume.”

“No, I'm not wearing any.”

“Smells like flowers,” he said, looking around the office.

“Maybe someone in the hall sprayed air freshener,” I said, but the smell surrounds the desk as if it emanates inside the room, not outside. I dismiss the aura with a smile at Ryan. “I hope you weren't waiting too long.”

“That's my fault. I usually arrive thirty minutes ahead of time for appointments. I guess its impatience,” Ryan said with a grin.

“That's a good practice. I'm just glad you didn't change your mind this time Mr. McThursten—Ryan.”

“Ryan is fine,” he replied as if he'd read my mind.

“I hope our accommodations from Washington to New York went well?”

He adjusts his body in the seat and props his elbow on the chair with an alluring self-assurance. “I drove. I prefer driving over flying. But the hotel is perfect.” He pauses, resting his brown eyes on mine. His mouth parts to say something then closes. All the while, his eyes never leave my face.

Silence leaves me acutely aware of my appearance. I fidget with the tacit pause, waiting for him to speak. His expression changes swiftly with whatever he was about to say and didn't, so I break the silence. “Excellent, yes, Le Parker Meridien Hotel has great service.” Averting my eyes from his unflinching gaze toward his disheveled manuscript, I start rearranging skewed pages nervously. “Well, as you know, I was captivated by your writing, and McClelland wants to publish your story,” I said, finding his eyes again.

He smiles. “This was a tough decision, and I've hesitated too long. As I mentioned on the phone, my father sent the manuscript. It wasn't meant to be read by others.” He pauses mid-sentence as he clarifies the novel had been curative, but of what he didn't say, but from his reserved manner, I assume there's more to his story.

“Ryan, this is a big step. It's hard publishing personal information for the world to see, but you're a talented writer.”

“Allison … is it okay if I call you Allison.”

“Of course.” My name on his tongue elicits sudden warmth and sends my mind scrambling to distant places, trying to recall the familiarity. The instant déjà vu and attraction have me confused and wondering if I've met him before. No, I would never forget his attractive face. The room grows colder, and I can't explain the sudden chill. “Are you cold,” I asked, rubbing my arms briskly.

“It's a little chilly, but I can handle it.”

“You sure you don't want coffee to warm you?” I asked, rising from my chair and moving toward the small coffeemaker purchased when I grew tired of running upstairs to the office cafeteria. I notice Catrina, who shares the room, has already brewed a pot. “It's already made,” I said, hoping to change his mind.

“Well, in that case, I'll take a cup.”

“Cream and sugar…”

“No, I prefer dark,” he said.

I pour two cups, one dark, one with cream, and return to the desk, placing Ryan's cup in his hand. Suddenly, the room is quiet, chilly, and fragrant. I know Ryan senses it too because he turns his head and sniffs softly. The scent has settled in the corner around the small sofa. I'm tempted to investigate, but that would look strange. Ignoring the fragrance, I give Ryan my full attention.

We both take a sip of coffee. Ryan's eyes lock with mine, and I lower my eyes into the cup, wondering when I've ever been a blushing idiot. At the same time, we place our cups on the desk. Ryan leans back with a smile.

“After our last conversation I was worried you wouldn't show up,” I said.

His angular jaw softens with a one-sided grin. “I've done much deliberation since your call. You don't need to convince me any further,” he said reassuringly.

“I'm so relieved and happy you're going through with the publishing. You've made a good decision,” I said with a smile.

“Well,” he said, looking down at his wrist and twisting a colorful beaded bracelet around a triple-helix silver cuff, “I'm not doing this to be a renowned published author. I could care less. But I feel … Well, let's put it this way, it's for my brother.”

* * *

That was the first, and possibly the last time I'll ever see Ryan McThursten. Three hours later, and without any warning, management pulls my division into the conference room. Another impromptu sales meeting, I assume. But the bombshell I'd been fearfully sensing and traipsing around suddenly explodes in all our faces. No one saw it coming. Months before the merger, we were given assurances. After all, McClelland has a policy of no layoffs. Why would anyone worry? We're confident McClelland has our backs, but management's rigid conduct says otherwise. Wide-eyed, I listen as McClelland discards employees like last year's model.

“We regret to tell you we're closing several divisions…”

A collective shock of disbelief sends a horrified gasp across the conference room. The announcement, like a boulder tumbling onto my path, hurls me precipitously over the edge. Momentarily dazed, I sit listening but not comprehending my life has changed in an instant. All I can think about is my schedule, the number of manuscripts I've been working on, and the meeting with the editing team about Ryan McThursten's contract. How I make it back to my office is a wonder.

I sit at my desk, appalled at management's callous dismissal. A surge of anger swells, and then infests my mind with outrage. After four summer internships and two years of hard work and dedication as an Acquisitions Editor, all I receive in turn is three month's severance. Angrily, I screech, “WHAT THE FUCK!” I deserve better.

My stomach bubbles venom. Anger swells vengefully. Swiftly, I send valuable contacts to my personal email and log onto a blog I'd created months ago with hopes of writing but quickly abandoned. I vent to wordless exhaustion—a much-needed tantrum publishing a rebuking post about McClelland's merciless layoff.

I exhale long and slow, then grab the phone and call the one person who can console me, the one person who's been my anchor for years. A prerecorded message spills robotic through the phone, “This number is no longer in service.” My mind clicks. How could I forget Grandma Blu passed away two months ago? Then I dial the only other person who can assuage my anger. Voicemail mirrors my sister's voice. I want to scream, NIK, CALL ME BACK IMMEDIATELY! But I don't want to appear the needy little sister losing her shit, unable to cope with problems. So, I continue packing my belongings and leave the office without a goodbye to anyone, not even Catrina, one of my dearest friends.

How comical, I think, as I exit onto Avenue of the Americas, merely six hours ago I'd entered the building joyful with hopes of a new contract. But like every good thing in my life, time at McClelland has expired. I refuse to look back at a building where I've built a career soon after college, a place akin to a second home. Brimming with anger and aware of strangers' furtive glances, I avoid the subway and opt for a taxi's backseat privacy. Dazed, I barely hear the driver asks, “Where to?” A subdued voice answers, “1630 York Avenue.” I sit numb and oblivious to the city landscape past the window. Temporarily, I stuff anger inside an abyss, a detrimental place suffused with painful memories. Tears will come later.

3 Three Faces of Grief

STRAINING UNDER SUMMER HEAT the air-conditioner hiccups, shudders, and thumps. I roll my head toward the noisy corner where the AC resumes a peaceful hum. With apathy, I gaze at the ceiling. Numb. Softly, I rest my hands on my chest. It still beats regardless. I wish to place my heart in a jar, protect and shield it till sorrow's done. Grief … I've never suffered five stages—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—just three. How can you deny reality? And bargaining is useless when circumstances are beyond one's control. You can only mourn the loss. Three faces of grief have visited in my twenty-four years. The first time was during my parent's divorce, second, Grandma Blu's death, and third, McClelland's layoff. Each visit, though different, was painful all the same.

When my parents announced their divorce, the life I knew ended. Unlike my sister's grief, a riotous monster spewing paroxysm of anger, I was paralyzed with sadness and suffered pain in silence. But for both of us, sorrow carved slow-healing wounds and left identical scars of constant insecurities. The second face of grief, death, came three months ago with Grandma Blu's loss—my anchor and source of comfort throughout my parent's crazy separation. That pain, still fresh, hasn't healed. I suspect with time, it too will subside, but will always be tangible. The third red-hot grief was McClelland's layoff. Another death of sorts I've filed under miscellaneous. Though different from the previous, it's still a loss I mourn deeply. A loss of worth, a loss of lifestyle, a daunting change, and yet again, forging a new reality.

The layoff is still an open wound. Every emotion and thought that spring day, is indelibly etched like ink across my memory, as vivid as cherry blossoms viewed from the taxi window. I fume, thinking of McClelland's dishonesty. Management never had our backs. Now, retrospectively, I realize the lay-off was a godsend, deflating complacency I'd never allow, but did, putting trust in a profit-seeking company unconcerned about people. The unexpected blow left me confused and searching for a new normal.

Although the lay-off was a month ago, I frequently reflect on my loss but grow tired of drowning in grief. For days, I wake numb with anguish, lying sleepless, staring at misshapen shadows roving the ceiling—a devil's pitchfork aimed to sling me from inertia. Though grief is fading, the loss of Ryan McThursten's contract is infuriating. After the daunting effort to gain his trust, I should be his editor. This is so unfair … Well, I reason, the layoff was for the best—a necessary kick to jumpstart my writing. I sigh with a despairing glance at the laptop, but exerting mental energy is unfathomable.

Outside the window, a garbage truck thunders through a pothole and triggers a blaring car alarm, but indifference holds me unmoving. Headlights flood the window, casting shadows across the dark bedroom. Finally, tired of lying on my back, I sit up, yawn, stretch, and grab the laptop from the nightstand. Opening my blog to a post I'd written the previous night, I notice the blogger named Undaunted, a blogger who'd become a follower soon after the rebuking post about McClelland, has left comments again.

I cringe, remembering bloody poetry and disturbing words, which left no wish to explore her blog. I've considered blocking her, but that would be rude. The sudden desire to write dwindles restless, so instead, I check my email, finding more of the same junk mail, car note payment alert, and a myriad of other bills. Just as I'm about to close the laptop, a familiar email address catches my attention. Three bold words torment fearfully.

“Do you remember?”

The untimely arrival strums an eerie chord, registering greater fear. I sit straight, wondering why the email is so early. The question, now truncated from nine to three urgent words, heightens alarm. Is my tormentor growing desperate for an answer? I can't keep ignoring this. They're not going away. After two years, I've hoped the harasser would stop. The first time the email arrived, I was paranoid, now, I'm downright frightened.

Quickly, I close the laptop, slide off the bed, and walk toward the window, hoping the lavender sunrise sprawling the East River will distract fearful thoughts. Ahead, on the FDR Drive, diametric white lights wend toward a routine destination. A view that inspires calm most mornings has no effect today. Fearful someone who saw me and knows what happened that night is watching, unseen but there, impatiently awaiting an answer. I fear they won't let up until I give them what they want. I look twenty stories below at Manhattan's empty sidewalks. Who are you?

Down the hall, a closet door screech—Nikki's daily dash to dress for work. Grabbing my laptop, I head to the door, hoping breakfast will distract anxious thoughts.

4 Lil'sis

TRUDGING FROM THE BEDROOM, I stop at the sight of a suit-clad man sneaking down the hall. I adjust my long pajama top falling mid-thigh and hope he doesn't glance back at my disheveled appearance. On tiptoes, I follow and watch him creep downstairs and exit the duplex's front door. Nikki's new boyfriend, the one she hasn't introduced yet, I assume. I can't keep up with her men, her interest wanes so fast. Her constant change of boyfriends forever a mystery. I've always believed the men end the affair, discouraged by her domineering personality and career.

I continued down the stairs into the open-concept kitchen and glance around the space, the duplex Nikki, and I inherited from mom when she moved back to Louisiana to take care of Grandma Blu. With Blu's death, mom decided to stay in a home she'd been raised. The duplex, Nik and I redecorated is modern and chic but lacks the warmth of a home. Every item appears new, unused because Nikki and I are seldom here. Spending most of our time at work; the duplex became just a place to shower and sleep.

Finding the remote, I turn on the TV across the room, catching the tail end of California wildfires. A humorous weatherman announces, “Another sweltering day, 92 degrees, but feels like 102 with the humidity.”

“Great, it's only June,” I muttered, grabbing a carton of orange juice and eggs from the refrigerator. I decide toast, scrambled eggs, and Nik's dark-bold-Chilean coffee is enough, given the wasted pancakes prepared several days in a row. I don't know why I bother. Lately, neither Nikki nor I care for breakfast. But breakfast always evokes happy childhood memories of Nik standing at the stove over food sizzling, and breakfast redolent air. For a moment, I allow myself to visit that happy place in mom's kitchen as Nik and I shared a meal around the kitchen table, laughing and talking, as utensils clatter melodiously on ceramic bowls. Then I exhale a calmer breath.

As children, breakfast and dinner were synonymous with security, permanence, the emotional safety Nik, and I lacked as children. Meals were our anchor, refuge in our parent's unstable world. Products of a broken home, we alternated between households of two career-obsessed individuals too busy to parent properly. They thrust their parental duties on prepubescent Nikki. I became her charge. With an eight-year age difference and motherly responsibilities, Nik appeared much older in her teenage years. She's never forgiven our parents' neglect and often retaliates with angry words. “Some people aren't meant to be parents.” Although names were unspoken, the intended target was implied.

Now, here I am at twenty-four, cooking Nik breakfast and subconsciously conjuring childhood before our security was ripped apart. I can't complain after all the years she took care of me. Since the layoff, I've tried to appear useful and resilient around my workaholic sister. I retrieve two plates from the cabinet, place them on the counter, and then pause at a familiar name on the television. Franklin Emsworth, a name I haven't heard since college. The news reports a new museum to be constructed in the District of Columbia by Emsworth's Real Estate Development Corporation. A Real Estate Developer and great-grandson of Emsworth University's founder gave a sendoff speech at my graduation.

Instantly, a frosty breeze sweeps my bare calves and thighs. Shivering, I rush toward the window and turn off the AC, but oddly, the chill grows icier, engulfing the space. An ensuing pressure clamps my chest. My heart races and the room begin to swirl. Light-headed, I inhale and exhale deep, averting a full-fledged anxiety attack. I haven't felt one this strong since college and wonder what brought it on.

“Good morning, sis,” Nikki said, striding into the kitchen straighter than an African princess toting a basket atop her head, chest leading first.

Her wheatish brown skin is glowing, a complexion Nikki and I inherited from French-Creole ancestors of Louisiana. “It's a good morning for one of us,” I said banishing unease with humor. Nikki stands half-dressed in bra and pants; a cream blouse dangles in her hand. Sandy brown waves, flat-ironed bone-straight, fall softly against her bare shoulders. She looks so much better with her natural waves, but she'll disagree strongly. Feigning annoying lil' sis outgrown years ago, I say “Someone's glowing this morning. Who was the black suit sneaking out?” I jab naughtily.

“You saw him?”

“Uh-huh,” I said with skewed lips. Knowing my expression will irk Nik as it always does when I stumbled on her secrets. “I saw his backside before he snuck out the door—”

“He wasn't sneaking out, Allie. He overslept and was in a rush.”

“Who is he?”

“Shane,” she said with an irrepressible fish-eyed expression that swims across her face whenever she's made some blunder.