Flee out my front door. Activate the building’s fire alarm on the landing. Bang on everybody’s doors. Shout Fire! People come running. Attacker scared off. It’s my number one strategy because with my foot how it is, I could never outrun the potential attacker. I could take the elevator, but by the time I got to the ground floor, he would be waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs and I’d be as good as dead.
Climb out the living room window. Get onto the balcony. Unhook the fire escape and make my way down to the next level’s balcony and fire escape and so on until I reach the ground. Not easy with my foot but I can do it. One time my neighbor caught me practicing. Mr. Lee from apartment 5b. He’s been kind enough to look the other way ever since.
The last resort. Not so much an escape strategy as a final solution. Shoot the fucker in the head with my Glock 19 9mm compact semi-automatic pistol that I keep in the side table next to the sofa.
That’s it. Only two escape routes out of the apartment, and one last resort, but at least I have a plan.
I cross the living room floor and check that the large window overlooking the balcony is firmly locked, that the venetian blinds have not been touched, that no dust has been stirred. After that, I hang back behind the window frame, look out the window and onto the balcony, and study the dark street below. All clear. I lower the venetian blinds and adjust the slats until they are closed all the way, then walk the circumference of the room, checking that nothing’s out of place, that the armchair and sofa have not been sat on or moved.
I head to my bedroom and check the window there. The latch holds firm, the way I left it this morning. The blinds are the same, too. I look around and check that nothing has been moved and it all looks okay. I pause and study my bedroom closet, or what’s left of my bedroom closet. I removed the doors when I first came here. The thought of someone hiding inside made me on edge all the time, so I took them off.
It’s tidy, with just the bare essentials to aid a clearer view. Everything from my old life is gone. All those frivolous dresses, too short and pretty for me now given my cumbersome foot. Not a high heel in sight, either. Now it’s all about sensible orthopedic-adjusted shoes. Serious career pant suits and blazers. Besides, it’s easier to get away in flats and trousers than a skirt and kitten heels.
I scan the racks. Two pant suits, one gray, one navy, both with matching blazers. Two neatly pressed white shirts. A beige raincoat and gray knee-length woolen coat complete the collection. Resting on the shoe rack below are two pairs of flats, black and black, and two pairs of Nikes with a special orthopedic insert, my gym bag next to those.
In the three cubby holes to the left, two sweaters and one hoodie sit neat and snug. Below that, a pair of jeans and sweatpants. My workout gear occupies the final cubby.
My eyes scan slowly left to right. It’s still dark in there, I think, inside the closet. Despite my attempts at minimalism, I should throw more things out. But not tonight. Tonight I don’t have the energy. My eyes reach the winter woolen coat and halt. Oh god, was that movement? Did I hear a breath? Did the hem of my coat shift ever so slightly? My heart begins to race.
I fight the urge to run. Instead, I tell myself to just calm the hell down and take another look. And when I do, I see that I’m wrong. Nothing there except the imaginings of my touchy amygdala. I lower myself onto the bed and take six full breaths to calm my rising panic. No one is there. No one is there. No one is there.
I look at the clock on the bedside table. It’s after two. I need to get some sleep or I will be a wreck in the morning. I wonder what my colleagues at the DA’s office would think if they could see me now, shaking, out of control, imagining phantoms in the wardrobe.
Heart still pounding, I get up and leave the bedroom. There’s nothing to worry about, I tell myself, just finish checking then go to bed. I pause at the door of the spare room next to mine and turn the handle. It does not budge. Still locked. Good.
Next I move to the bathroom, check behind the shower curtain. All clear, so I head back to the front door and turn the knob and check the locks again. Then do the circuit twice more, rechecking the living room, my bedroom, the other room, the bathroom, the front door as thoroughly as I did the first time. Even after I have done the checking three times there is always the urge to check once more.
But I tell myself that everything is fine. The apartment is safe. I am safe. I have done enough for the night. I realize I am shivering. The apartment is freezing. I turn on the heat, twisting the thermostat way up. The crummy thing rattles into life, blows out stale air, but warms the place quickly.
I can barely keep my eyes open and head for my bedroom. A sudden high-pitched beep stops me. My cell phone battery is dying. I turn back and dig inside my purse to put it on the charger. The screen is lit with four missed calls. I listen to them. The first is from my mother. Would Amelia please keep her eye out for the vacation brochure on Bali she’d sent her, and wouldn’t it be great if Amelia could meet a nice man to take because she’d heard there were fantastic resorts where you could get couples massages for a very good price. The second message is from Claire Watson, the New Jersey mom of the eleven-year-old child witness I am supposed to be briefing tomorrow. “Amelia? I need to talk to you. Give me a call.” Blunt and to the point, in true Claire Watson fashion. Her message was left at 7:38 p.m. It’s now nearly 2:30 a.m. Too late to call. It will have to wait until tomorrow. I swallow down the guilt, not sure how I’m going to explain my tardiness. The third is from Lorna. My therapist. She’s pissed I missed our appointment. Twice. I look down at the fourth missed call and go cold. Number unknown. No message. It’s nothing, I tell myself. I stare at the screen for a long time. It doesn’t mean anything, nothing at all. But it’s too late, it sets me off and I begin the checking all over again.
3
I hurry up Center Street and head toward the Civic Center District of Manhattan, finger-combing my unbrushed hair as I go. I’m late for my witness briefing with Susie Watson. The checking this morning has put me behind. It took me longer than normal to get out of the apartment because that stupid unknown call was still playing on my mind. I chide myself. I should be getting better but I’m only getting worse. It cannot go on like this. At the best of times, morning checking is generally worse than nighttime checking because of the time pressure to get to work. I hate rushing because I’m afraid I might make a mistake and overlook some critical detail. As a result, I have often found myself outside the apartment and the blinds don’t look quite right so I have to go back and start the process all over again.
Case in point, this morning when I studied the apartment from the outside, doubts crept in. Were the venetian slats at the correct angle? Did I check the auto light timer was working? Did I look behind the shower curtain in the bathroom? I was torn about whether to return to the apartment or be late. Finally, I swallowed down my anxiety and headed for work. I could not let poor Susie down. The little girl had been through enough already.
I reach Foley Square and the New York State Supreme Court Building, the court where serious matters are heard, serious criminal matters like the one involving Susie Watson. The building makes me feel small, with its giant Roman granite columns and sweeping stone steps leading up to the grand colonnaded entrance. I am just a limping ant with a cane. And one day this limping ant will get found out. Because I have the credentials, sure, the law degree, the will to do good, but sometimes it’s hard not to think there’s been some kind of a mistake. That I don’t really belong here, trying cases, putting the bad guys away. Some days I feel like I’m an imposter who’s making it up as she goes along, and today is definitely one of those days.