Stay With Me by Alison Gaylin Page B

Grille in midtown. The photo had appeared everywhere—and, figuring she had nothing to lose, sad, trembling Ashley had finally agreed to the interview. (“May as well,” she’d said.) And here, Faith was secretly angry she’d switched from tomorrow to today?
    How selfish could she be?
    From behind the camera, Nicolai said, “Makeup says Ashley will be ready in five to seven minutes.”
    Faith nodded. She thought of the thick scar down the left side of Ashley’s pretty face and wondered how makeup was doing with that.
    She looked around the living room of Ashley’s small, pine-scented apartment as if she were seeing it for the first time—blond-wood furniture, blue cloth couch, polished floors. No personal pictures, no artwork. A bookshelf that was bare, save for a few pastel candles in votives and an empty ceramic vase that looked as though it had been bought out of the same catalog as everything else, and at the same time, too. Everything simple and spotless and not in any way personal.
    Anyone could live here. Anyone at all.
    “Rosella says you have a call,” Nicolai said.
    Rosella, Faith’s assistant, was waiting outside with the rest of the crew. Ashley had wanted only Faith in the apartment for the interview, relenting only for Nicolai because someone had to work the camera.
    “Can she take a message?”
    Nicolai shrugged. “She says it’s one of Maya’s teachers.”
    “On a Saturday?”
    He shrugged again.
    Faith got up and smoothed her suit. She had an odd sensation, a fluttering in her stomach, a weakness in the knees as though the ground was shifting beneath her, something changing and she couldn’t stop it . . .
    Why was Maya’s teacher calling her at work? Of course Maya’s teacher would have no idea Faith was at work—it was just a cell phone number, pure and simple, on file with the school for when she couldn’t be reached on the landline.
    But . . . why?
    The image fluttered back into her mind: Maya, slamming her laptop shut. That look in her eyes . . .
    What is she hiding? Is she in some kind of trouble?
    Outside Ashley Stanley’s freshly painted front door, Rosella was waiting on the stoop, looking up at Faith with her dark, seen-it-all eyes. The rest of the crew was buzzing around the news van and trailer, parked at the curb. Faith stole a quick glance at the trailer, where Ashley was getting her makeup done.
    “Maya’s teacher?” she said.
    Rosella nodded, handed her the phone.
    Faith took the phone and said her name into it.
    “Faith Gordon-Rappaport?” The voice confused her. It was either a man’s, soft and lilting, or a woman’s, deepened by years of smoking. Either way, she’d never heard it before. And Faith was sure she’d met all of Maya’s teachers. “We have to talk,” it said.
    Faith cleared her throat. “Is there something wrong?”
    “Maya. She’s a sweet girl.” A woman. Faith was ninety percent sure .
    “Which teacher are you? I don’t believe we’ve spoken before.”
    “You shouldn’t let her out.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “She’ll ask to go out. She thinks she’s old enough. She’s not. Keep her home.”
    She looked at Rosella. “Did she say she was Maya’s teacher?”
    The girl nodded. “Math.”
    Maya’s math teacher was a man. And British. Faith glanced at the screen. It read “Restricted Call.” “Who is this?”
    “I see you with her. I know you love her. You’re a good mother.”
    “Who are you?”
    “I watch you, so I know.”
    Christ. Another stalker .
    “Don’t let her go out. It won’t be good for anyone if you do.”
    Faith said, “Listen. I don’t know how the hell you got this number . . .” but then she stopped. The line was dead, the call ended.
    For several seconds, Faith felt a dead weight in the pit of her stomach, chills up her back. The lingering feel of a stranger, saying her daughter’s name. She stood there, staring at the phone, letting the feeling pass. This stalker hadn’t been the first to