CHAPTER 12: KERRY
I was about to leave work when Brett texted me. I read the message with a small frown.
Might be late for dinner.
That was odd.
I took my things from by the door—I left at six on Saturdays—and headed out, my phone in my hand.
Sure, are you okay?
I was halfway home when I started worrying. Why hadn’t he replied?
On an impulse, I decided I wasn’t going to go straight home. I was going past his apartment block. Something was wrong.
I drove up his street, my heart thudding hard inside me. I wondered if maybe the wound was infected and he had a fever or something? I didn’t know if it could happen in such a short time-span, but I wasn’t about to leave it up to random chance.
I scanned the street, looking for his apartment block. I remembered which street it was from the fact that it was quite close to my work. But I didn’t know which number the building was.
“It’s not that one, it was a darker color,” I said aloud. “Not that one, it has too few floors. Oh. There we are…”
I spotted the tall, dark-painted building in the middle of the other houses. It was an old apartment block but a surprisingly nice neighborhood, with big gardens and tall, spreading green trees on the sidewalk. I looked up at the building. One of the windows was broken, I noticed, the jagged edge of the glass winking in the setting sun.
I felt a tremor of worry. That was odd. It stood out, here in this place, to have a broken window just left like that. Why was it broken?
I stopped and got out, feeling suddenly scared. I walked across the street and pressed the button with the name “Randell”. I waited.
“Brett?” I called into the intercom.
No answer.
I pressed again.
“Brett?” I called. “It’s me!”
“Kerry?” he sounded incredulous. Then the door clicked and I walked in. I slammed it behind me—I wasn’t quite sure why, but I felt scared, maybe because of how taut Brett sounded—and walked in.
I wasn’t sure which number his room was, but I soon heard the lift open and Brett appeared. He was wild-eyed and frightened.
“Kerry!” he said. “You shouldn’t be here. Please! It’s crazy.”
“What is?” I said. I looked at his drawn, frightened face. He was pale, eyes tense at the edge.
“Kerry, they’ve broken my window. They know which apartment is mine. If they can break one window, they could get in. They could shoot me. Or you. Please. They might see you with me. I don’t want them to know about you. What would I do if they hurt you? Please? You can’t come in here. You should go.”
“Brett?” I felt suddenly scared. I wasn’t going to go, not with them out there! And I wasn’t leaving him either. Was he mad, that he thought I would walk away and leave him to get shot? “Look, I’m calling the cops. This is silly.”
His eyes went white round the edge, a sign of frantic fear. “No,” he said. “Please! No. We can’t.”
I blinked in surprise. “Brett, we have to! In fact, we should have called them ages ago. Please! Let me?”
He still looked scared. I saw him think about it, about to make a denial. About to say something. Then he shrugged.
“Okay,” he said.
I frowned. “Okay?” I said. What was going on here? He should have called them yesterday. Then these people, whoever they were, would probably be gone by now. Even if the police hadn’t found them, it would be a deterrent. I dialed the number.
“Hello?”
“Hello, this is Ms. Highgate. I’m calling from…” I frowned at Brett. He said the address under his breath. I repeated it. “Listen, I have to report a break-in attempt.”
Brett frowned. He was on the fourth floor. How anyone was trying to break in there by breaking the window remained something of a mystery. But we had to try.
“A break in?”
“Well, someone broke the window. Please,” I said, letting my terror show in my voice now, “please, just send someone round here, please? They might still be out there.”
I heard the guy cave in. He clearly thought I was overreacting, but he agreed to send them round anyway.
I sighed. When I had finally hung up I leaned against the wall, the energy draining out of me.
“They’re coming,” I said.
I looked at Brett and he looked at me. I wasn’t sure if he looked calmer or more panicked, quite frankly. There was a drawn, gaunt look on his face and his eyes were tight in the corners.
We waited together until the siren blared up the street. We didn’t think it made sense for us to be in the apartment where we could be spotted at the window. When the police arrived, I went out to talk to them.
“You’re Mrs. Highgate?” the man asked me.
“I am,” I said.
I looked round and Brett was there behind me, his face chalk-pale, his hand shivering. I had no idea why he was so scared, but he was. I faced the officers and tried to give an explanation of what happened.
“So,” he said, “You were at home when it happened?”
“No,” I explained. “Neither of us were.” Brett had told me that in the interim while we waited.
“You don’t think maybe it was a kid, playing pranks?” the officer asked. His colleague was in the apartment, looking around for whatever projectile had broken the window.
“A kid threw a stone up four flights of stairs with force enough to break the window pane?” I tried not to sound too ironic, but it dripped from my voice like ice.
The officer glared at me. “You have to think of everything, ma’am,” he said, patronizingly.
I felt Brett stiffen beside me and I rested a gentle hand at his wrist. Don’t get mad at them, I wanted to convey. Let them do their job.
“Hey, Nielsen?” the other officer shouted.
“Yeah?”
“I found something.”
“Okay, great,” the man said. He went in with a long-suffering air. I stayed where I was with Brett. All the time he was getting more and more nervous. I couldn’t understand why.
“What is it?” I called.
“It’s a bullet,” one of the men called.
I was surprised by the fact that I was relieved to hear that. I had enough of policemen not taking it seriously. It was serious. Imagine if the bullet had hit someone?
When the policemen came out, they were both concerned.
“We’re taking this down to forensics,” they said. “Sir?”
“Yes?” Brett croaked.
“You ready to fill in a statement?”
“He can’t,” I pointed out reasonably. “He wasn’t here.”
He let out a sigh.
“Well, then,” the other officer said sternly, “he can fill in that he wasn’t here. You still need to fill something in.”
I looked at Brett. He had gone gray. I felt terrible for him, though I still had no idea what it was that was bothering him so much.
“Okay,” he said in a taut voice.
We went into the kitchen and filled in the statement while the other cop whose name I’d forgotten, the rude one, went around outside to see what was out there to find.
When the cops finally stood, suddenly much friendlier, to leave, I thought Brett might pass out with relief.
“If anything happens, you call us immediately,” the officer who had been rude said diffidently.
“You have somewhere else to stay? Ma’am? Sir?” the other officer, Nielsen, asked.
“Yes,” I said quickly. “I have an apartment nearby.”
“Good,” the guy said. I noticed him give us a funny look. “Well, you should go there,” he said.
“Thanks, officer,” I said tightly. “Yes. We will.”
When they’d left, I sat down wearily on the floor. I felt drained. We locked the apartment behind us and took the key, ready to head to my place. We were going to be there anyway, ironically. It just hadn’t quite been planned as this essential.
I stayed where I was on the floor of the hallway, the stone cold underneath me. I was too tired to stand.
“Brett?” I said.
“Yes?” His voice was thin with tension, like a wire, crackling with electricity, about to break.
“What is wrong?” I asked gently. “Can you tell me? I need to know… please?”
He sighed. “I don’t know, K.”
I closed my eyes. “Please, Brett.”
He took a long, steadying breath and cleared his throat. “I can’t.”
“You can try,” I said.
He nodded. “I can try.”