questions? He’s cute, and I’m just trying to help. All he wanted was Hannah’s phone number.”
Shaking his head, Scott got to his feet. He brushed past her and stepped out of the back room. “Um, can I help you—” he started to say, making his way toward the counter. Scott stopped in his tracks.
No one was there.
She was deciding whose Sunday newspaper she’d steal this morning. Dressed in a lavender jogging suit, and with her black hair pulled back in a short ponytail, Cindy Finkelston stood at the mail table in the lobby of her apartment building. She hadn’t been jogging. Cindy had power-walked to the coffee shop three blocks away for her usual Sunday morning latte to go.
Some asshole in line at the coffee place had given her flack, because she’d cut in front of him while he was glancing out the window. She’d dished it right back to him, claiming she hadn’t known he was in line. He’d called her “rude” and “obnoxious.” But, ha-ha, she’d gotten her coffee before him.
Cindy set the hot, heavy-duty paper container on the mail table, and studied the pile of newspapers. She ignored the note that had been taped by the mailboxes about three weeks ago:
SOMEONE HAS BEEN STEALING MY VANITY FAIR MAGAZINES. THIS WAS A GIFT SUBSCRIPTION FROM MY BROTHER, AND WHOEVER HAS BEEN HELPING HIS-OR-HERSELF TO MY MAGAZINES ISN’T VERY NEIGHBORLY. IF THIS CONTINUES, I’M TAKING IT BEFORE THE CONDO BOARD.
—RACHEL PORTER #401
A couple of other residents at the Broadmore Apartments had scribbled comments on the typed notice: “I have the same problem. Someone keeps taking my Sunday paper…M. Donovan #313,” and “Ditto - J. Vollmer, #407.”
Cindy took The Seattle Times , with #313 written on the clear plastic wrapping. The way she figured, if they really wanted their Sunday paper, they should have gotten up earlier. You snooze, you lose. After all, it was past eight o’clock. This was her newspaper now, and there wasn’t a single, solitary thing they could do about it.
She picked up her coffee and rang for the elevator. Cindy rode up to the fifth floor. Tucking the newspaper under her arm, she pulled out her keys and unlocked her door.
Cindy stepped into her apartment, then stopped. It was too cold. She automatically glanced over at the sliding door that led to a small balcony off her living room. But the door was closed. Along the other wall, she noticed the sliding window—wide open. The screen was open too.
Suddenly, something flew down at her from above, fluttering past her shoulder. Cindy dropped her coffee—and her neighbor’s newspaper. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment. She realized it was a pigeon. The damn thing must have been perched up on her bookcase. Now it settled on the back of one of her dining room chairs.
“Goddamn it!” Cindy hissed, once she got her breath back. Coffee had spilled on her pale blue carpet.
She hadn’t opened that window earlier. What was going on?
“Filthy thing,” she muttered. “Shoo, get out!” she said, waving at the bird.
But the pigeon only flapped its wings as if it were about to take off at her. Cindy got scared and backed away. “Shit!” she muttered. She decided to let the caretaker get rid of the damn thing.
Then it suddenly dawned on her that she might not be safe in the apartment. Someone else had opened that window, and he could still be there—hiding, waiting for her.
Cindy turned toward the door and gasped.
A man stood in her path. He wore an army jacket and black jeans. A nylon stocking was pulled over his face, distorting his features. Cindy couldn’t tell what he looked like. But she could see he was smiling.
She started to scream.
All at once he was on her. He slapped his hand over her mouth. Cindy couldn’t breathe. She struggled and kicked. She tried to bite his hand, but his grip was so tight, she couldn’t even move her jaw. Cindy thought he might break her neck.
He maneuvered his way behind her. He was twisting
Shaking his head, Scott got to his feet. He brushed past her and stepped out of the back room. “Um, can I help you—” he started to say, making his way toward the counter. Scott stopped in his tracks.
No one was there.
She was deciding whose Sunday newspaper she’d steal this morning. Dressed in a lavender jogging suit, and with her black hair pulled back in a short ponytail, Cindy Finkelston stood at the mail table in the lobby of her apartment building. She hadn’t been jogging. Cindy had power-walked to the coffee shop three blocks away for her usual Sunday morning latte to go.
Some asshole in line at the coffee place had given her flack, because she’d cut in front of him while he was glancing out the window. She’d dished it right back to him, claiming she hadn’t known he was in line. He’d called her “rude” and “obnoxious.” But, ha-ha, she’d gotten her coffee before him.
Cindy set the hot, heavy-duty paper container on the mail table, and studied the pile of newspapers. She ignored the note that had been taped by the mailboxes about three weeks ago:
SOMEONE HAS BEEN STEALING MY VANITY FAIR MAGAZINES. THIS WAS A GIFT SUBSCRIPTION FROM MY BROTHER, AND WHOEVER HAS BEEN HELPING HIS-OR-HERSELF TO MY MAGAZINES ISN’T VERY NEIGHBORLY. IF THIS CONTINUES, I’M TAKING IT BEFORE THE CONDO BOARD.
—RACHEL PORTER #401
A couple of other residents at the Broadmore Apartments had scribbled comments on the typed notice: “I have the same problem. Someone keeps taking my Sunday paper…M. Donovan #313,” and “Ditto - J. Vollmer, #407.”
Cindy took The Seattle Times , with #313 written on the clear plastic wrapping. The way she figured, if they really wanted their Sunday paper, they should have gotten up earlier. You snooze, you lose. After all, it was past eight o’clock. This was her newspaper now, and there wasn’t a single, solitary thing they could do about it.
She picked up her coffee and rang for the elevator. Cindy rode up to the fifth floor. Tucking the newspaper under her arm, she pulled out her keys and unlocked her door.
Cindy stepped into her apartment, then stopped. It was too cold. She automatically glanced over at the sliding door that led to a small balcony off her living room. But the door was closed. Along the other wall, she noticed the sliding window—wide open. The screen was open too.
Suddenly, something flew down at her from above, fluttering past her shoulder. Cindy dropped her coffee—and her neighbor’s newspaper. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment. She realized it was a pigeon. The damn thing must have been perched up on her bookcase. Now it settled on the back of one of her dining room chairs.
“Goddamn it!” Cindy hissed, once she got her breath back. Coffee had spilled on her pale blue carpet.
She hadn’t opened that window earlier. What was going on?
“Filthy thing,” she muttered. “Shoo, get out!” she said, waving at the bird.
But the pigeon only flapped its wings as if it were about to take off at her. Cindy got scared and backed away. “Shit!” she muttered. She decided to let the caretaker get rid of the damn thing.
Then it suddenly dawned on her that she might not be safe in the apartment. Someone else had opened that window, and he could still be there—hiding, waiting for her.
Cindy turned toward the door and gasped.
A man stood in her path. He wore an army jacket and black jeans. A nylon stocking was pulled over his face, distorting his features. Cindy couldn’t tell what he looked like. But she could see he was smiling.
She started to scream.
All at once he was on her. He slapped his hand over her mouth. Cindy couldn’t breathe. She struggled and kicked. She tried to bite his hand, but his grip was so tight, she couldn’t even move her jaw. Cindy thought he might break her neck.
He maneuvered his way behind her. He was twisting
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