“Shit,” Monica says under her breath. “Who is that?” Gertie asks.
“How should I know?” Monica replies irritably.
I’m as clueless as they are. Who is that? The super? The police, come to arrest me? Any of the above would be great. But I assume if it was one of those people, they would knock before simply barging into the apartment.
Before I can ask who’s there, Monica rips another piece of duct tape off her roll and slaps it over my lips. And then she shoves me so hard, I roll off the bed, into the foot-wide space between the bed and the wall. My shoulder hits the floor hard and I gasp under the duct tape. The radiator sticking out of the wall is sharp, and I can feel the cold metal slicing into my forearm.
“Abby? You home, Abby?” It’s Sam. Sam’s voice.
What the hell?
Monica leans over the bed, where I’m wedged between the mattress and the wall. Her face is bright pink. “Don’t move a muscle. Or else.”
For good measure, Monica tosses a blanket on top of me. It dulls the sounds and makes it sort of hard to breathe, but I can still hear through it. I hear Monica say to Gertie: “Mom, you hide in the closet, okay?”
I hear the door to the closet right next to the bed swinging open, then shutting soundly. But I’m confused now. Why is Gertie hiding in the closet? It’s not like Sam doesn’t know she exists.
Doesn’t he?
“Hey, Sammy.” Monica’s voice, traveling through the thin walls of our apartment.
“Monica?” He sounds baffled. “What are you doing here?”
“Abby called me to come over to talk,” she says. “But then she was just… ranting and raving. And she finally ran out.”
“She… ran out?”
“What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were giving a lecture?”
“I canceled it.” I can hear him sigh. “I sort of had it out with Abby last night, and I couldn’t stop feeling shitty about the way we left things. I really need to talk to her. We’ve got to figure this out.”
My heart swells. Sam isn’t plotting against me with Monica. He’s on my side. And even after all the things he believes I’ve done, he wants to try to work things out with me. Of course, it would be nice if he believed me in the first place, but I have to admit, the evidence was pretty damning.
“Do you know where she went?” Sam asks.
“I have no idea. Honestly, she was almost unintelligible. Probably high out of her mind.”
Sam is quiet. Don’t believe her. Please don’t believe her.
Monica’s voice again: “She said something about getting out of town.
She was calling the airport.” “The airport?”
I calm my heavy breathing so I can hear them better. The radiator is really starting to hurt my arm—I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s bleeding.
“Yeah, she ordered an Uber to LaGuardia, so…?”
“Jesus Christ. All right… I, uh… maybe I’ll see if I can get over there and find her. You don’t have any idea where she might have been booking tickets for?”
“I’m sorry, no.” “All right.”
Oh my God, he believes her. He’s leaving! Please don’t leave, Sam!
Don’t believe her!
“Let me just call her phone real quick though,” he says. “Maybe I can talk some sense into her.”
“No, Sam.” There’s an urgency in Monica’s voice. “You can’t talk sense into her. You can’t.”
And that’s when I hear it. The ringtone. My ringtone.
“Monica?” He sounds so confused, I want to run over and hug him. “Why is Abby’s purse and phone still here?”
“Um…” I hold my breath, waiting to hear what she’ll say. “She was in such a state, Sam… she just left everything behind.”
“Even her phone?” “Apparently…”
“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “If there’s one thing I know about Abby, she would never leave the house without her phone. Where is she, Monica?”
“I told you—I don’t know!”
“Abby!” He’s shouting now. “Abby! Are you here?”
I’m here! I’m here!
“Abby!” His voice is louder now. He’s coming toward the bedroom. “Abby! Where are you?”
“Sammy, she’s not here…”
“Abby!” The bedroom door is open now. His voice is much louder. “Abby!”
With all my might, I kick against the side of the bed. The noise makes Sam go quiet. I hear bedsprings creak. A second later, the weight of the blankets lifts off my body, and Sam is staring down at me, a look of growing horror on his face.
“Abby,” he gasps, bending over me. “What… what’s going on?”
Call the police!
But it’s too late for that. Much too late.
