31. CASSANDRA

The roses my new Texan boyfriend bought me survived the subway ride back home yesterday, and they’re still doing well in their vase on my dining table this afternoon.

That probably has something to do with all the natural light my apartment lets in. It may be small – find me one in Manhattan that isn’t, outside of Carson’s – and overpriced, but it’s bright. Southern exposure bathes the kitchen-living room space in sunshine most of the day, and the east-facing window in my bedroom wakes me with the rising sun every morning.

The exception, of course is the panic room. The only source of light in here is the single bulb that illuminates my work laptop. The green text on the screen shows me something that has become something of a talisman for me over the past two weeks: my Cayman account balance.

$2,500,000.00 USD.

Two and a half million dollars. One million away from my goal. Four more days. So close, I feel like I could almost touch it.

The computer whirs softly as I shut it down and hit the light switch. As always when I leave my office, I think of the Pevensie children from the Chronicles of Narnia, leaving the wardrobe and returning home.

Of course, my Narnia is a paranoiac’s wet dream, not a magical kingdom.

The light shrinks my pupils as I emerge into my bedroom, and I’m blind for a moment. I stop at my bed and sit for a moment as my eyes adjust. As I do, I think about yesterday: about the flowers, the Texan, Betty’s advice.

“Oh, the troubles some girls has,” I say out loud.

My phone chooses that moment to vibrate. At first I think it’s my alarm, telling me I’ve spent enough time at home and better get my butt out the door and onto the streets, so as not to violate the rules of the Chase.

But then I glance at it and see Carson’s number.

Do I really want to answer?

I hit ignore call and drop it into my purse, then scoop up my keys and head for the front door.

The walk to Patty’s is a good fourteen blocks from my place, but I need the exercise to keep my head clear. The cadence of my heels clicking against the sidewalk sets a rhythm that lets my mind become passively aware, noticing but not thinking. Meditating, almost.

After several minutes of this, I turn off the avenue and onto an adjoining street, just to keep myself from falling into a pattern. As I do, my breath catches in my throat.

Walking right toward me is the man from the theater.

I can’t slow down or I’ll look suspicious. As I close the gap, he seems to notice me. Recognition dawns in his eyes. I wish I had my phone in my hand to pull the same trick, but I don’t.

Our eyes meet as we pass, and I surprise myself by stepping toward him and raising my arms in a menacing pose.

“D’ja get a good look, you fucking perv?” I holler. “You think I don’t remember you? Maybe I should call my husband to come talk to you, is that what it’s gonna take?”

His eyes nearly pop out of his round face as he speed-walks down the street away from me.

“Yeah, you better fucking run!” I call after him. “Creep!”

I head back toward my original route and let the adrenaline flow back out. I realize now that I was pushing things by using the same routine twice. I also realize that the Chase is still on, and that I need to be on my guard at all times.

My phone buzzes. Carson again. I ignore it again.

The blocks flow past me: trees, people, flowers, architecture, all the things that make New York City so unlike any other place in the world. Thomas Wolfe once said you belong to this city as much in five minutes as in five years, and I believe it. It’s hypnotic, especially on a beautiful day like today.

Which makes what happens next that much more jarring. As I turn the corner to head back onto Forty-Second Street, I run face-first into a tall wall of man heading the other way.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, trying to recover my bearings.

When I finally do, I look up to see Carson Drake’s gorgeous gray eyes looking down into mine. He’s out of breath.

“Don’t you ever answer your phone?” he pants.