The First Councel

As Joel heads toward the elevator, I’m left trying to figure out who he was talking to. A minute ago, I was panicked by the FBI. Now I’m praying for them.

Opening the door to my apartment, I notice a sheet of paper folded in half. Someone slipped it under the door while I was gone. Inside is a three-word message: “We Should Talk.” It’s signed “P. Vaughn.”

P. Vaughn, P. Vaughn, P. Vaughn. I roll the name through my subconscious, but nothing comes up. Behind me, the front door to my apartment slams shut. I jump from the bang. Although the sun hasn’t set, the apartment feels dark. As quickly as possible, I turn on the lights in the hallway, the kitchen, and the living room. Something still feels wrong.

In the kitchen, I hear the measured pings of the leaky faucet. Two days ago, it was a sound I had long since internalized. Today, all it does is remind me of finding Caroline. The puddle of coffee that ran to the floor. One eye straight, one eye cockeyed.

I pull a sponge from the counter and stuff it in the drain. It doesn’t stop the leaking, but it muffles the sound. Now all I notice is the muted humming of the central air-conditioning. Desperate for silence, I head toward the living room and shut it off. It fades with an awkward cough.

I look around the apartment, studying its details. My desk. The rented furniture. The posters. It all looks the same, but something’s different. For no reason whatsoever, my eyes focus on the black leather couch. The two beige throw-pillows are exactly where I left them. The middle cushion still bears the imprint from where I watched TV last night. A single bead of sweat runs down the back of my neck. Without the air conditioner, the room is stifling. I look back at the name in the note. P. Vaughn. P. Vaughn. The faucet’s still dripping.

I step out of my shoes and take off my shirt. Best thing to do is lose myself in a shower. Clean up. Start over. But as I head to the bathroom, I notice, right by the edge of the couch, the pen that’s sitting on the floor. Not just any pen-my red-white-and-blue-striped White House pen. With a tiny presidential seal and the words “The White House” emblazed in gold letters, the pen was a gift during my first week at work. Everyone has one, but that doesn’t mean I don’t treasure it-which is exactly why I wouldn’t leave it on the floor. Once again looking around, I don’t see anything out of place. It could’ve just fallen from the coffee table. But as I reach down to pick it up, I hear a noise from the hall closet.

It’s not anything loud-just a quiet click. Like the flick of two fingers. Or someone shifting their weight. I spin around, watching for movement. Nothing happens. I put on my shirt and stuff my pen in my pocket, as if that’s going to help. Still nothing. The apartment is so quiet, I notice the sound of my own breathing.

Slowly, I move toward the closet door. It’s barely ajar. I feel the adrenaline rushing. There’s only one way to deal with this. Time to stop being a victim. Before I can talk myself out of it, I race at the door, ramming it shoulder first. The door slams shut and I grab the handle with everything in me.

“Who the hell are you?” I scream in my most intimidating voice.

With my weight against the door, I’m braced for impact. But no one fights back. “Answer me,” I warn.

Once again, the apartment’s silent.

Looking over my shoulder, I peer into the kitchen. A wooden block full of knives is on the counter. “I’m opening the door, and I have a knife!”

Silence.

“This is it-come out slowly! On three! One… two… ” I pull open the door and race for the kitchen. By the time I turn around, there’s a six-inch steak knife in my hand. The only thing I see, though, is a closetful of coats.

Wielding the knife in front of me, I take a step toward the closet. “Hello?” In a teen slasher pic, this is the moment when the killer jumps out. It doesn’t stop me.

Slowly, I pick my way through the rack of coats. When I’m done, though, I realize the truth: No one’s there.

My shirt now pressed with sweat against my chest, I return the knife to the kitchen and turn the air-conditioning back on. Just as the hum returns, I hit the play button on the answering machine. Time to get rid of the silence.

“You have one message,” the machine tells me in its mechanical voice. “Saturday, one-fifty-seven

P.M.”

A second passes before a man’s voice begins, “Michael, this is Randall Adenauer with the FBI. We have an appointment on Tuesday, but I’d like to send some officers over tomorr-” He stops, distracted. “Then tell them I’ll call him back!” he shouts, sounding like he’s covering the receiver. Turning back to the phone, he adds, “I apologize, Michael. Please give me a call.”