Reality came into hazy focus.
A room.
His living room.
He didn't know why, but that didn't feel right. Why was Haatim in his living room? How had he gotten back to his apartment? Where had he been, because he vaguely knew that he hadn't been here? He had a strange suspicion that this wasn't where he was before he passed out, lying on his leather couch.
And was that . . .
. . . bacon?
It all hit him at once: the night, George flying out of the window, his camera, and the attack. He sat up, gasping for air. His body felt rigid, and he let out a grunt of pain as his muscles cramped.
He focused on breathing, but he could feel himself panicking: he'd been in his car, and he hadn't had pants on, and George was dead, and someone was after him, and he was about to be mugged or killed, and it was a dead guy, and he lost his camera and he vomited and—
"You're awake!" a voice called cheerfully from the kitchen.
Haatim screamed.
"Shh. Don't wake your neighbors.'
It was a woman's voice. He looked up, cowering, and saw the lithe black woman—Abigail—he'd been following for the last few days standing in his kitchen, drying her hands on his blue kitchen towel. This was the first time he'd gotten a close-up and unobstructed view of her: she had shoulder-length curly hair and high cheekbones. There was a scar on her right cheek, maybe an inch and a half long.
She was in her early twenties, maybe, but hard to tell with most of the lights off in his apartment. She was wearing skinny jeans and a faded gray T-Shirt that read "Avalon Wolves Rock!" with a wolf's head on it.
"Who—who—who—who—"
"Are you pretending to be an owl?"
Haatim felt his mouth hanging open, trying to process what she was saying.
"OK," she offered with a shrug. "I guess it wasn't that funny."
Haatim gulped. "Why . . . " he started "…why are you in my kitchen?"
"Because I was hungry?"
Haatim couldn't think of a reply. He looked down and saw that he was in his underwear.
"Why am I . . . ?" he trailed off.
"Almost naked? Because you vomited all over yourself. I threw your clothes into the bedroom and shut the door. Seriously, you don't have a washing machine or anything?"
He looked again at his underwear, feeling his face flush.
"I didn't take those off," she said with a laugh. "But I can't stand the smell of vomit. You didn't seem to mind, either. You just sort of moaned and thrashed while I did it."
"I uh . . . I don't have any money," he said. "Or not a lot, but you can have . . . "
She frowned. "You think I'm here to rob you? Why would I bring you home, drop you on your couch, strip your puke-covered clothes off you, and then cook us both breakfast if I was going to rob you?"
"Then what do you want?"
"You have been following me," she said. She stated it directly, making it clear it wasn't a question.
He winced as if she had punched him. "I wasn't."
"You're going to try that route? I advise against it."
He winced again. "I was hired to."
"So you think you're a detective?"
"Sort of."
She shrugged. "Not a very good one."
"I'm a blogger."
"Ah," she said, her face solemn. "I'm very sorry."
"Why would you think I'm a detective?"
"You've been photographing me."
"For my blog."
"You mean for George Wertman, right?"
"Him, too. He's the guy who hired me."
"I've read your blog. You've never done a single story like this."
"The opportunity was sort of sprung on me," he said.
She smiled sadly and shook her head. "You have no idea how right you are."
She turned and disappeared into the kitchen. He could hear sizzling and the microwave was running. "How do you like your eggs?" she called out.
"Excuse me?"
She appeared around the corner again. "Eggs? How do you like them?"
"I'm not hungry," he said, shaking his head. "How did I get here?"
"In a car. Your car, I hope. Otherwise, someone is going to be pissed tomorrow when their space is empty."
"What happened?"
"You passed out. I thought that much was obvious."
"I mean, what happened after that? How did I get here? Did you drive?"
She paused, staring at him with pursed lips. "You ask a lot of dumb questions. You know that?"
"Excuse me?"
"You keep asking questions that would be obvious to any sane person who examined this logically. Do I look like I have a driver with me? Maybe someone waiting out front to chauffeur us around? No, after you hyperventilated I shoved your ass into the passenger seat and climbed in."
"How did you know where I live?"
"Your driver's license," she said.
"My driver's license . . . "
He sucked in a breath. He started to feel dizzy.
"Whoa there, stay with me. Let's not do that again."
"Guy . . . he was dead . . . "
"It was a costume," the woman said. "Just a costume."
Haatim kept gasping for air, having trouble focusing.
Suddenly she banged her hand on the wall, startling Haatim. He shook his head, back in reality.
"Just a costume," she reiterated. "The guy uses it to scare people."
Haatim hesitated. "It didn't seem like a costume."
She shrugged. "I don't care what it seemed like. In any case, I retrieved your wallet and keys and brought you back here."
Then she disappeared back into the kitchen. After a second, he heard humming.
He stood up, still a little off balance, and staggered over to his bedroom. The smell of stale vomit wafted out as soon as he opened the door and he swallowed back a bit of bile. Without breathing more than necessary he kicked his dirty clothes toward the basket in the corner of the room and pulled a shirt and some pants on.
He stared longingly at the bedroom window for a few minutes after he was dressed. He could slip out, find a police officer, and tell them some strange person was in his kitchen, someone he'd never met before who had apparently driven him home and undressed him in his apartment.
But he decided against it. For one thing, he didn't know what was going on, and it seemed like maybe she had saved his life. Another problem was that he'd been following her for a few days now, collecting evidence on his computer and the document he'd been writing made mention of her more than a few times. "Sorry officer, this person I've been cyber stalking for a few days broke into my apartment and cooked breakfast in my kitchen," didn't sound very convincing.
But, the real reason he decided against it was that his bedroom window was really small. He wasn't in as good of shape as he used to be and doubted he could slip through.
***
With a deep and—he hoped—calming breath, he headed back to his living room. He felt better now that he had clean clothes on, and the pain and tightness in his body had mostly gone away.
The woman was sitting on one of his barstools, munching a piece of toast and scrolling through a phone. She paid him no attention at all.
It was the first time he saw her in good lighting up close. She was actually quite beautiful, he admitted, with full lips and smooth black skin. He'd suspected she was gorgeous, and she certainly didn't look like a murderer.
But, he now knew, looks could be deceiving.
Not looking up, she pushed another plate of food toward him. It had bacon, eggs, and a piece of toast on it.
"Eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Wasn't an offer," she said, taking another bite of her toast.
He picked up a piece of bacon and twirled it in his fingers. Just thinking of the grease in his stomach made him queasy. He dropped it back onto the plate and glanced at her again.
"Wait a second, isn't that my phone?" he asked.
"Yep."
"Hey give it—"
She looked up at him sharply. He stopped reaching and folded his hands in his lap.
"Uh . . . how did you get my passcode?"
"Seriously?" she asked. "It's the first four digits of your birthday. About as secure as a broken lock."
He wasn't sure he wanted to ask, but he did anyway: "How did you know my birthday?"
"I looked you up Monday," she said. Haatim did some quick math. That would have been the same day he was first asked to check into her when he'd met George at the library.
On Monday, he'd spotted her in a nearby park sitting on a bench. He only snapped a few pictures from his car on that day. He hadn't even gotten close to her, so how the hell had she known he was tailing her?
"Plus, every time you log on in the morning to check your email, you hold the phone up in clear sight of the window."
A flood of emotions hit him all at once. He couldn't decide if he was disheartened that she'd known he was following her from that very first day or that she had been spying on him and he hadn't noticed.
Or . . .
"Wait . . . I check my email in the bathroom."
She didn't look up. "Yep."
"OK, OK, what the hell is going on?" he asked, flushing again. "Who the hell are you?"
She hit the power button on his phone and slid it across the table to him. "Why didn't you publish your article?"
"Excuse me."
"You have plenty of evidence against me. Why didn't you take it to the authorities or post it like George wanted you to?"
