Liz

It’s hot as fuck. I come out of the subway on a hundred and sixteenth street, hoping that I’ll find some relief in the night air. August in the city is always on some other bullshit with its stifling heat. Okay, there is some relief. Like the difference from walking into a boiling hot room where the furnace is out of whack into a sauna. The temperature drops as I make it to the street, but not enough to stop the sweat that’s already coating my entire body. Everything feels thick and even sometimes when the air moves between the buildings and down the boulevard, it’s not enough. I need AC and I need it now. I reach into my bag and pull out my phone as my heels click their way to the crosswalk. Sweet sweet cell service.

The text alert from Scott pops up on my screen.

Thanks for fucking bailing. LOL

My buddy-in-professional law had this shit coming. He convinced me to go out with him and some of his prep school dormmates who are now working for a rival firm. It took us both less than one whiskey on the rocks to realize the douche factor the two brought to the table was more than we could tolerate without billing for our time. But these were Scott’s friends so I excused myself to the bathroom and slipped through the crowded bar and out the front door. He’d dealt with them alone for years—what was a few more hours?

I smile as I reply.

I hit the send arrow, then I switch over to my group text with my sister and three best friends. We actually have important things to discuss.

Brookie: I’m not. Stop messaging.

Some of us are trying to sleep.

No!aaa: I’m at Stoney’s but he’s working. What’s up?

Brookie: Try me, ho!

Rayna: I’m hiding from a patient.

What’s up?

I glance up as I hear a horn blare down the block, then back down at my phone. It’s almost ten and the night is just getting started. My neighborhood is alive. Kids still on the corner. Teens talking. Older kids making jokes and making plans. I smile at three boys clowning their friend about his phone. They all nod and smile back. I absently hope they stay out of trouble. I consider stopping at my bodega for a can of mango iced tea, but there’s rosé chilling in my fridge. That’s what I want. Frosty booze and the new season of Great French Baking Competition.

Brookie: LOL you’re the worst nurse ever.

That’s your grandma!

Rayna: And she fucking bit me while I was getting her into the bath.

I deserve a break. Don’t you have trial in the morning?

Go to bed!

Brookie: I’m trying, but my needy sister is

blowing up our phones.

Brookie: Yeah, assault on a district attorney. LOL

Try. It. Night!

She adds a smiley face with its tongue sticking out.

Rayna: Is this about Claudia’s bachelorette weekend?

I look away from my phone long enough to make it up the front steps without eating shit on the worn marble. I key into my building then stop at the mailboxes before I respond.

No!aaa: Cruise!!

Brookie: No!

Rayna: No.

Rayna: I’m on it. I’ll look for a place tomorrow.

While Nan is napping.

Guys I might see Langdon tomorrow.

I feel my whole body cringe as I unlock my mailbox and grab my mail. I don’t know Rayna’s ex, but their breakup sounded messy. She’s pretty sure he cheated. He wouldn’t fess up to it. There was family drama. Their grandmas were friends. They aren’t anymore. He continued to be a prick. She split for a new life in the City, only to have go right back to the middle of nowhere to care for her grandmother when she got sick. I think about how I want to respond so I don’t hurt her feelings.

She misses New York. She misses us. There’s nothing for her to do in Oklahoma. She’s with an eighty-year-old woman all day who seems to have a penchant for biting. I’m sure seeing her ex probably sounds like a great idea, a perfect distraction. I stop at the elevator and press the button, wait for it to come down from five. I unlock my phone and stare at the chat box. None of the girls are responding.

It’s possible they are all busy and they’ve all looked away from their phones at once. It’s more than likely they are all trying to think of what to say. None of us have met Langdon, but we all hate him. The elevator dings. I lock my phone and wait for my neighbor’s teen girls whose names I haven’t learned yet to step off the elevator. They smile at me and say hello as they squeeze by with their freshly applied makeup and cut off shorts and high top sneakers. Damn, I miss the days when summer actually meant something. I step inside and hit the button for three.

I’ll ask Rayna how she feels about seeing him. I’ll tell her not to see him again if seeing him this time makes her feel crappy. I’ll definitely tell her not to bang him. As soon as I get inside. The door dings open. I make it a few steps down the hall before my phone starts vibrating in my hand again. Someone’s responded in the group chat. I glance back at the screen as I unlock my apartment door.

Brookie: For fun or for fingerbanging?

I snort as I turn on the lights and drop my stuff on my kitchen counter. I lean down and pop off my stilettos. I grab one in each hand. I’m going to put them back on their rack. Then pajamas and wine. So much frosty wine ’cause I deserve it after the day I’ve had. I’ll let Rayna say what she needs to say about how long it’s been since she’s been properly fingerbanged and then I’ll give the best friend response I can give. I take three, maybe four steps and then I freeze.

There are moments in your life, split seconds, when a part of your brain processes more than you ever thought possible. Where your senses pick up details that they normally wouldn’t, but those details are all there, in stark clarity. Still that moment is always too short and your realization of those details always comes too late.

I’m not alone in my apartment.

I spin around and he's standing there, between me and my door. A white guy. I can’t gauge how old he is. Drugs and/or alcohol or the stress of breaking and entering have weathered his features. He’s wearing a thermal hoodie and he’s sweating. Not shocking considering how hot it is outside. His dark hair is shaved close to his head. Both of his ears are pierced with small diamond studs. There’s nothing in his hands, but it looks like there’s stuff weighing down the pockets of his dark cargo pants. This is the stuff I notice when I finally realize I am not alone in my apartment.

“Liz Lewis,” he says. He's about my height, maybe a little taller since I’m not wearing my heels anymore.

“Get out of here,” I hear myself say.

“Afraid I can't do that. You and I have a date tonight.” I don't know this man. I know he doesn't really know me, but he's in my fucking apartment. He takes a few steps toward me. I glance down at his hands, clasped together in front of him. His knuckles are turning white.

A heat settles over me. A calm. I'm going to have to fight this guy. “Get the fuck out of my apartment,” I say even louder.

He shakes his head. “Dorrit Junior sent me. He told me to take my time, sick fuck that guy. Man.” He laughs, this sick laugh like I totally understand why he’s in my apartment. “Always the rich ones. Such sick fucks. He actually told me to use my hands. We’re gonna have some fun. And then I'm going to put you to sleep.”

David Dorrit Jr.. I know the name better than I’d prefer. He’s the king of rich assholes and he has his whole family in on the game. Hotels. TV. Cosmetics. The works. He hired our firm. Hired me and my associate, Kelsey. Hired us and we lost. Kelsey quit after that case. Quit being a lawyer. I think she quit New York altogether. I haven’t heard from her in months. Did he break into her place too?

“You don't have to do this. You can leave right now. I won't call the cops. You won't have to add rape to your rap sheet,” I tell him.

His head cocks to the side and he lets out a loud burst of laughter. “Rape? Nah, honey. You black bitches ain't my type. No, Mr. Dorrit said you made a promise that you didn’t deliver on. Now he wants me to deliver you.”

He’s done. I can tell. There's something in his eye. He's done talking. He’s going to kill me. I lunge for my bag, but he knocks it off the counter. I hear my shit spill all over the hardwood floor as I take a step back. He rushes me. I turn to run, but his whole body slams me into the other side of the counter. The adrenaline rushes through me and instinct takes over. I hear my mother’s voice in my head. The memory of her talking to Brookie after a boy chased her five blocks just to read the tag on her bra.

If someone’s fucking with you, you fight dirty.

I knee, I kick. I get free and he’s on me again. We both land on the floor. The wind’s knocked out of me. Later I’ll feel just how badly I’ve bitten the side of my tongue. I kick some more. He’s going to have to kill me, I tell myself and there, somewhere in the back of my brain, I know. I just know. I don’t know how—he’s not going to win this fight. I’m not going to fucking die.

I kick again. Wildly. He’s trying to slam me harder into the floor, but his arm is trapped under me. He tries to lift us both up. I smash the back of my head into his nose. I’m free. He’s groaning, calling me a bitch.

I try to get up and run, and he grabs my ankle. My knee hits the floor as the momentum of his hold throws me onto my back. My wrist hits the base of the island. My other hand hits my stiletto. He still has a grip on my ankle, and his head is tilted back.

“Goddamnit. You broke my fucking nose,” he says, like there’s been a pause in the action. Like I’m going to give him a minute to regroup before we continue our wrestling match. Like I’m going to give him a few minutes to catch his breath and stop the bleeding.

I grip my shoe tight and swing forward. The heel goes right into his throat.

* * *

I stand in my open doorway looking at his lifeless body bleeding out on my floor as I call 9-1-1.

“A man broke into my apartment. I killed him,” I say when the woman on the other end asks me to state my emergency. “I killed him.”

“Are you sure he’s dead?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say. I leave out the part about him twitching while I grabbed my phone and how I watched the twitching stop from across the room. I don’t dare turn my back on him. I can’t look away. I know how that horror movie ends.

The woman on the other end asks me my address. I give it to her. I try to breathe.

I hear my neighbor’s door open. I don’t take my eyes off the dead man on my floor, but I can sense Mr. Guerra as he steps out in the hallway. He comes closer and I can see him out of the corner of my eye in his boxers and Yankees t-shirt. He shoves his glasses into place. I know he sees the blood all over me. There must be some on my face.

“What’s the matter, Lizbetta?” he asks.

“Is that the man?” the dispatcher asks.

“No, it’s my neighbor.” He glances pasts me then jerks back out into the hall once he sees what I’m looking at. Then he reconsiders and tries to step past me and into my apartment. I grab his arm and shake my head. I’m fucking shaking, but I’m not stupid. He does not need to complicate things.

“Wait for the cops,” I say to him.

“We’re sending some officers right now.”

“I’m staying on the line until they arrive,” I tell her.

“Okay, ma’am just stay right where you are.”

“Okay,” I say. I can’t move anyway. I can’t force myself to look away. I can’t stop shaking. There was a man in my apartment and he tried to kill me. It’s all I can think about, over and over. There was a man in my apartment. He got into my apartment. Someone sent him to kill me, but he didn’t. I killed a man. I can’t stop shaking and I can’t stop thinking about what I just had to do.

* * *

The officers arrive. They take me down the hall. They ask me questions. More officers come. Mr. Guerra tells them what he heard. He asks if he can stay with me. They tell him he can. He tells them that they need to take me to the hospital. They won’t let him come with me though. He asks me if I want him to call anyone. I say no. I’ll handle it. I’ll handle it when I’m ready. I’m not ready to tell the girls. I’m not ready to tell Brooklyn. I’m the mom of the group. I know this. They know this. I have to take care of myself before I can take care of them.

They take me to the hospital. I hate emergency rooms. I hate the expected chaos that no one even bothers to control. It’s summer. Summer in the city when the heat makes people do stupid, foolish things. There’s a child in the bed across from me. She’s staring at the ceiling holding her arm. Her mother won’t stop crying. And there was a homeless man in the bed next to me, bleeding from his face, and they had to move him. He wouldn’t stop screaming. I think he’s why the mother’s crying. Not the kid with the broken arm. The nurses seem to be annoyed with me because I’m in the least distress, because I’m so calm, but they don’t fucking know. I’m not calm. I just can’t talk. I can barely breathe.

They check me out. I’ll be sore tomorrow, but I’m okay. I’m fine. My wrist has a mild sprain. My pinky toe feels broken, but that's just sprained too. My knee’s just bruised. The nurses wrap my wrist up and there’s paperwork. Fucking paperwork, like I can think about that right now. The cops aren't done talking to me yet. I ask them to call Scott. I wait. I wait. The woman across from me won’t stop crying, and a nurse draws the curtain around my bed to give me some privacy. I want to tell her to get a fucking grip. She’s fine. It’s her kid who should be crying. I should be crying, but I can’t. My brain won’t slow down even to let me cry.

At some point the curtain flies open and there’s Scott. He’s still wearing the clothes he had on earlier at the bar even though it’s almost two a.m. Clearly they didn’t wake him up. He comes close to the bed. He towers over me. He’s six-six or something crazy like that, and the only guy in my firm who isn’t somewhat of a creep. And the only guy in the firm who doesn’t have some sort of complex about how tall I am. We’re both brown so we stick together. I look at him, trying to figure out what’s going on inside of my chest.

“Liz. Shit. What the fuck happened?” he says.

I tell him.

“Dorrit?” he asks when I’m finished. “David Dorrit had someone do this to you?”

“Yeah.” My voice doesn’t waver, but I feel some tears leak out of my eyes. I wipe my face with the side of my knuckle. My hand comes away dry. I wipe my face again and now I’ve just smudged my makeup. Maybe there aren’t any tears.

“That fucking guy. What the fuck—” He stops as one of the cops escorts a man over to my bed. Sweat beads along his forehead. The summer heat.

“Miss Lewis?” the man says.

“Yes,” I say.

“I’m Detective Cohill. Just wanted to ask you a few questions. Get a clear picture of what happened in your apartment.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me about your night.” he says.

“She was out having drinks with me.”

The detective and I both look at Scott.

“Is this your boyfriend?” he asks, glancing at both our hands. He’s looking for rings.

“No. He's my friend and coworker.”

“Friend and coworker, do you mind giving us a minute?”

“I'm also her lawyer,” Scott says.

I let out a sigh. My chest hurts. I’m freezing. “He is a lawyer. I’d like him to stay,” I say even though I’m not sure if that’s how I feel. My brain is split in two. One side is protecting me, or hiding. The other side is doing the thinking for the rest of me. Scott stays.

“Well I'm not arresting you right this second,” Detective Cohill says. “So if your lawyer could let you tell me what happened that would be great.”

I look up at Scott through my eyelashes. I know he's worried, but I know what the fuck happened. I can handle this.

“David Dorrit Jr. tried to have me killed. He sent that man to kill me.”

“David Dorrit Jr.? As in the Dorrits?” He doesn't believe me.

I sit straighter and smooth my hair behind my ear. “Yes.”

“And how do you know this?”

Because I’m not a fucking liar.

“I handled a case for him several months ago and he wasn't pleased with my work. The man in my apartment said David Dorrit Jr. sent him to put me to sleep with his hands. He told him to take his time killing me.”

In a previous life, I did sex work, worked as a professional dominatrix. The women I learned from taught me all their tricks, the rules and precautions to take in the trade. They told me how to avoid and if I had to, deal with violent client and law enforcement. When I left the business to practice law for good, I never thought I’d have to take those lessons with me. I never thought they’d apply when dealing with clients through Murrell, Dunne, Walmax and Wright. Foolish of me.

“Well, I guess he didn't study his mark. The way you're built,” Detective Cohill says to my face as if women like me should take the fact that I was successful in fighting for my life just because I’m tall and thick boned as a compliment. That feeling in my chest moves up to my throat.

“Do you know how he got into your apartment? Didn't see any signs of forced entry.”

“I don't know,” I tell him. “He was just in there. I didn't look around before I called 9-1-1.”

“You didn’t lose any keys recently? Forget to change your locks?” Cohill asks.

“I haven’t lost a set of keys since I was nine years old. I don’t know how he got in.”

“Well we’ll see if we can get any footage from the security cameras.” He takes down my cell and my work numbers. He thanks me, then slides his pad and pen back into the pocket of his jacket. Apparently we’re done here.

“What now?” Scott asks the question on the tip of my tongue.

“We’ll let you know when we have some more information. You have some place to spend the night? Maybe with your lawyer friend here? I don’t think the techs will be done until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Uh, you can crash with me,” Scott offers. I don’t respond, but that sounds good enough for Detective Cohill.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says with a final nod. Then he turns and heads for the exit.

“Hold on. Wait,” I say as I hop off the hospital bed. My ankle burns, and I ignore it. “Someone hired him to kill me. Are you going to look into that?”

Cohill looks over his shoulder. He hesitates a moment. Licks his lips. Looks at Scott in that way men look at each other when they think a woman is being hysterical. “Uh, well…” He steps back toward my bed. “We will definitely look into it, but right now it looks like you’re pretty lucky.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say.

“By your account, someone broke into your place and you defended yourself.”

“By your account. Right. So open and shut case.” Scott says as he lets out his own loud sigh and runs his hands through his slick black hair. “You know that’s bullshit right? I mean at least pretend you believe her. We all know what the Dorrits are like. You can’t say Dorrit Jr. is above any of this.”

Cohill shrugs while simultaneously nodding in agreement. “Like, I said. We’re gonna do our best to get to the bottom of this. Get some rest. And we’ll be in touch. We’ll probably have you in to talk to the D.A. pretty soon. You’ll hear from us.” He’s done then. He turns and walks away for good.

“Can you believe that fucking guy?” Scott says as Cohill pushes through the exit’s double doors.

“Shockingly, I can.”

“Let me go see if I can get you out of here. You don’t have to crash at my place. I just wanted to get him off your back.”

I blink, then look up at Scott. I try to at least. My eyes aren’t focusing on his face.“I want to crash at your place.” I say. “If you don’t mind. He—this dude bled out on my floor.”

“Fuck,” Scott breathes and then he steps in front of me. I do my best not to shrug him off as he puts both his hands on my shoulders. “Are you okay?”

“No,” I say. I think of my best friend. I think of Claudia and her near brush with death. How she escaped not one, but two deranged serial killers nearly two years ago. I think of how I tried to sympathize with her. I know about survivor's guilt. I know what it’s like to bury a loved one or two. This is something else. I scan Scott’s face. He doesn’t understand, he can’t understand for a whole host of reasons, but I think he genuinely cares.

He gives my shoulders a firm squeeze. “I’ll be right back.”

He finds the right nurse. I sign some more papers. Thank God for my quality insurance. We walk out those same double doors into the still boiling hot night. I’m still shivering when our cab pulls up.