She randomly tapped four new numbers on the security screen, not even looking, and locked Arthur’s phone up tight. She’d pillaged everything that was on it, and Arthur’s last secrets had been committed to a spiral notepad. Once the killer got the phone back open and then cracked the WhisperMe password, maybe he’d realize it had been opened already, the messages read and erased.
And by the time he manages that, she thought, Amber and I will be long gone.
“A reasonable request. Are you familiar with a vintage cinema called the Quad?”
She had been there a couple of times. They ran art films, retrospectives, film festivals. Cozy theaters, small screens, a nice place to get off the street and be alone in the dark with her thoughts for a few hours.
“Greenwich Village, right?”
“That’s the one. Two blocks west of Union Square. A movie is scheduled to begin at seven fifteen. Purchase a ticket, go inside, and sit in the second-to-last row. I’ll find you there. You seem like an intelligent young lady. I don’t have to tell you to come alone, do I?”
“And you’ll bring Amber?” Seelie steeled herself. “I don’t see Amber, you’re not getting anything from me.”
His dry chuckle washed over the connection.
“No worries, she’ll be right there with me. See you at the show.”
The line went dead. Seelie stared down at the dead phone in her hand. Then she gathered up her things, wriggling the notepad until it found a secure bed at the bottom of her cavernous backpack, hidden far from sight. Arthur’s last secrets. Her secrets now.
* * *
The signal had stopped moving.
The last log petered out, coordinates nine cell towers deep showing that Arthur’s phone had found its final destination. For now, at least, and only if Nell could get there before it started moving again. Her bank account was down to its dregs, she had no idea how she was going to make rent come Friday, and buying another log trace was out of the question. Either she tracked it down now, or she wouldn’t find it—and the witness—at all.
The sun slid out of sight, casting the streets in long brass shadows. Streetlights flickered to life and pushed back the dark. Just not that far. The shadows were always close, congealing in the alleys, creeping in around the edges of the urban wilderness.
“Tyler,” she said, phone to her ear. “I’ve got a location. I’m in a Lyft, on my way—”
The car jolted, shoving her forward on the freshly vacuumed fabric. The driver made an apologetic sound in his throat. Up ahead a light flashed from yellow to red, and horns blared as a moving van tried to muscle its way into the crawling line of traffic.
“Working on it,” she added. She craned her neck, looking for a street sign, wondering if she might be better off covering the distance on foot.
“Where?” Tyler said. “I’ll come and meet you.”
“Are you still at the office? Forget it, at this hour you’ll never make it in time. Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”
“I’m not convinced.”
“Based on what?” she said.
“Based on what happened the last time you told me ‘don’t worry, I’ve got this.’”
“Everything worked out fine.”
“I had to post your bail money,” he said.
“And the paper reimbursed you. See? Everything worked out fine. Trust me.”
Nell lasted one more block in stop-and-start traffic, clinging to the edge of her seat. Sitting patiently wasn’t one of her skills. She thanked the driver, jumped out at the next corner, and broke into a jog, weaving her way down the crowded sidewalk.
* * *
A steel awning read Quad Cinema in stark block capital letters. Seelie held her breath as she stepped through the glass doors and into a narrow lobby painted cherry red and dusk gray. The track lighting and neon signs marking the way gave the place a sci-fi feel, Blade Runner meets urban hipster. According to the posters just inside the door, the Quad was hosting a Brian De Palma retrospective. Carrie, Dressed to Kill, Scarface, Body Double—the images were lurid, Technicolor, all sex and knives.
The 7:15 showing was for Blow Out. Seelie bought her ticket. She planted her toes and twisted her ankle from side to side, fidgeting, scanning the churning crowd in the lobby for any sight of Amber or the cadaverous gunman. No familiar faces, no anchors to cling to.
She made her way into the theater. This wasn’t some IMAX cavern: there were seventy, maybe eighty seats, upholstery and walls and the low-slung ceiling all done up in the same movie-blood scarlet as the lobby wall. A track of art-deco neon glowed soft overhead as she cautiously eased down the aisle, stopping short. The sparse audience sat spread out, mostly clustered down front. Left of the aisle, the back two rows sat empty. Seelie followed the rules she’d been given: she slipped off her backpack, setting it down at her feet as she took a chair in the second-to-last row.
Nothing she could do now but wait.
Theaters were anonymous. Safer than the street. Everyday life made Seelie a moving target. She would catch a stray glance, someone staring at her face a little too hard, a little too long, and she’d think they clocked me. Then there was that old familiar tightness in her belly, like a fighter steeling herself against a punch. Would they leave her alone? Or would there be a snicker, a veiled comment, a guy elbowing his buddy and whispering “Check out the tranny over there” just loud enough to make sure she heard it? Daring her to say anything, to give them an excuse. She would keep her head down and keep moving.
Tiny cuts. Tiny cuts added up.
Then there was always the chance you’d cross paths with him. The one man in the crowd whose instinctive response to nonconformity was primal, violent rage. The one convinced that people like Seelie had to be punished. Purged. There weren’t a lot of him out there, but all it took was one. Then you’d be beaten, maybe shot, maybe lit on fire, and there’d be a touching tribute on social media as you transitioned from a living human being to a dead statistic buried under a dead name.
Normally, though, she felt a little safer here. Movie theaters were dream palaces. Nobody was real here. They were all faceless shadows, swallowed by the dark, all eyes turned to the glowing window of light and the story playing out. It didn’t matter who the audience was, where they came from; for an hour or two they were united around the campfire as storytellers wove their craft.
She couldn’t lose herself in a movie tonight. Her eyes stayed fixed on the aisle, her ears perked, listening for the rustle of footsteps at her back. She was reasonably sure the killer wouldn’t walk in shooting; if that was the plan, he would have demanded a meeting somewhere private. That didn’t mean he’d keep his word and let them go once she handed over Arthur’s phone. She’d have to adapt, think on the fly, and find a way to get them both out of this nightmare in one piece.
The neon and the house lights dimmed. A projector crackled to life. The show was about to start.
13.
The trace pinpointed Arthur’s phone to a block of West 13th Street. Narrow, both sides of the road choked by parked cars and barely enough room for the one-way traffic to slide between them. Trees ringed by low iron fencing dotted the sidewalk in the shadow of five-story towers, mostly apartment buildings with a scattering of retail at the ground level. An optometrist, a bookstore, a doggy day care—Nell kept a brisk pace as she navigated, eyes sharp, hunting for anywhere the phone and its new owner might be hiding.