Page 30 of Man of the Year

It’s late, but Jersey City has traffic, though undoubtedly not nearly as much as during the day. Still, I manage to lose the SUV behind me. I drive for several blocks around my apartment building, looking for parking while making sure I really lost that SUV. I turn down the radio volume, like that’s going to help me find a parking spot or solve the mysterious SUV riddle.

When I finally find parking, I get out of the car and sprint toward my building, punch the entrance code, and hurry down the hallway toward my apartment. I pretty much fall inside, slam the door, and press my back to it, exhaling in relief.

It’s a relief that one more day is over. That I have a job. That I’m good, no money, but there are worse things in life than being poor. I could be broken. I could be?—

My eyes catch sight of the photograph in the living room, the one of Cara, Lindsey, and me in Atlantic City, on the beach, several years ago, right before Lindsey passed.

“My two favorite things,” Cara used to say. “The ocean and you babes.”

My heart does this strange thing where it halts for several seconds before starting to beat faster, and suddenly my chest feels like it’s being filled with liquid tar.

It’s hard to breathe. The emptiness of the apartment claws at me like a monster.

“Me too, babe. Me too,” I whisper.

I pull my phone out of my purse and check the missed calls.

I’m Cara’s emergency contact, her “sister,” and if there had been any change to her condition, they would’ve called me. But there are no missed calls from the hospital. That means there are no updates.

Tears prickle my eyes. I never really liked this apartment, but Cara made it come alive. We needed that change after Lindsey’s passing, after we moved out of the quirky warehouse flat the three of us used to rent in Manhattan. We struggled to come to terms with Lindsey being gone, and right now, I feel just like I did for months after Lindsey’s funeral when the world carried on as usual while I felt like I lived in a depressing hellhole of sad memories.

I take deep breaths, trying to snap out of my miserable mood. The emptiness of the messy apartment is suffocating. Usually, when I came home, there would be jazz music blasting from Cara’s room at the same time as some popular podcast would blare from the computer, while she’d be dancing, cooking in the kitchen, several costume projects scattered on the couch, the coffee table, the floor. And amid all that, she’d probably be on the phone, too, while trying to give me a spoonful of whatever new dish she was cooking. Or there would be someone sitting on the couch, drinking, someone “dirt-poor but extremely talented” or “a star on the rise” or one of the many people Cara made friends with just about every step she took in the city. That’s my Cara.

But no, this apartment is silent, eerily so, the only sound being that of Trixy scratching at the cage.

“Wait up, girl, I’ll feed you,” I tell her, pushing away the depressing thoughts. I kick off my shoes when my eyes land on a note on the floor—someone must’ve slipped it under the door.

I pick it up.

It’s handwritten on a restaurant napkin.

You don’t know what you got yourself into.

Rosenberg is dangerous.

Call me ASAP.

There’s a phone number scribbled beneath the words.

My pulse starts racing. This is the proof I’ve been waiting for—Rosenberg is a criminal.

But that’s not why my knees go weak.

Someone knows where I live, and that someone came here.

TWENTY-ONE

NATALIE

Whoever left the note has been very quick to track me. Technically, with a little more digging, they could’ve gotten my number too. I check the missed calls on my phone, but none of them are from unknown numbers.

So I dial the one on the napkin.

After one ring, I hear a low male voice. “Hello?”

“Hello?” I reply, my heart pounding like a drum.

“Who is this?” The voice sounds harsher this time.

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