Page 27 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter twenty-one

I can’t go home.

I come to that conclusion as soon as I’m inside the taxi (a spontaneous decision after I realized I’d need to wait three minutes for the closest ride-share, which is three minutes longer than I’d currently like to spend in the Upper East Side).

I can’t go back to the apartment that Adrian owns and could, keys in hand, show up to any time he wants.

For all I know, he’s already planning an ambush, and I’d trek all the way home just to find him sitting in my kitchen with an expired mug of Lipton tea and my perfectly healthy cat at his feet.

No, not home.

There’s Joe’s place in Brooklyn, where LuAnne is most likely spending the night. They’d let me crash, no questions asked, on Joe’s lumpy green futon in the living room—but I can’t go there either.

Not after reading all their information in the Poppy dossier.

He’d root me out just as easily in Brooklyn as he would at my apartment.

Cold realization seeps into my bones.

My apartment building, my entire social network, my finances…there is nowhere for me to go. I could shill out the cash for a hotel, but inevitably, he’d just track me there too.

I need time.

Somewhere—someone he doesn’t already know about.

But the problem is that anyone I’ve ever looked twice at, let alone know well enough to beg for a favor, is documented in that file.

I run a shaky hand through my hair.

Well…that’s not entirely true, is it?

There is one person who managed to escape his notice.

If I were less desperate, I might feel guilty about what I do next—but as it stands, I’m all out of options.

But one.

***

Tom is waiting on the stoop of his downtown Astoria apartment, bundled tightly in a fuzzy blanket, when my cab pulls up to the curb.

I don’t miss the relief that flares in his blue eyes as he spots my face through the window, and he cautiously approaches. “You need fare or anything?” He asks, and I open the door. “I know it’s a long commute from Manhattan.”

He’s already reaching into the pocket of his plaid fleece pajama bottoms, but I shake my head. “Oh, no, that’s…okay. I appreciate the offer, but I already took care of it.”

Still, I linger in the cab under the guise of double-checking for my purse and phone, doubt rolling over me.

Am I really doing this?

Tom is innocent. He has no idea what kind of danger he’s in just by opening his door to me tonight.

My mind flashes back to the file, to the crossed out names that—

“Poppy?” Tom hovers on the sidewalk, concern clouding his expression. “Are you okay?”

No, I am not okay.

I am the furthest thing from okay.

I feel like a snow globe on someone’s shelf, my entire world shaken up and left in disarray.

And I’m putting an innocent person’s life at risk to buy myself some time.

I loose a shaky breath and exit the cab. “I’m fine.”

Tom doesn’t look convinced, so I try again—this time with a weak smile. “Seriously. I’m okay. It’s just been a long night.”

He nods, and up close, I’m able to see the pink tinge across his nose, cheeks, and ears.

“You really didn’t need to wait out here in the cold for me,” I tell him, all too aware of the brisk, below-freezing chill that’s already seeping through my dress.

My jacket is still hanging on a hook at the gallery—a decision that didn’t feel irresponsible three hours ago, when I was leaving wrapped in the expensive wool of Adrian’s coat, but now…

Well, if I end up on the run, I’ll just have to stick to warm climates.

“Oh, I haven’t been out here long,” Tom shrugs, but the quiet chatter of his teeth betrays him.

That, and he’s only wearing a faded IOWA STATE CYCLONES t-shirt under the blanket.

“And I don’t mind. It’s physically impossible for me to just sit inside and wait for guests to ring the call button.

Pretty sure it’s the ‘Midwestern Nice’ ingrained in me. ”

Despite the panic still tightening my chest, despite all that’s transpired tonight, I smile. “I don’t think ‘nice’ is the word for what you’re doing for me tonight.”

He bounds up the stoop and fiddles with his keyring. “Oh, don’t even mention it,” he waves me off. “I’m happy to help.”

I’m not sure you’d be so happy to help if you knew the truth.

Paranoia creeps over me as I wait for Tom to key us into the building.

What if he sent someone to follow me?

What if they’re out here right now, watching me? Reporting back to Adrian?

All those reports of my daily activity had to have come from someone.

My throat constricts with fear, and I glance back toward the road as if I might find just that—an unmarked car or a shadowy figure cloaked in darkness, but the residential street is quiet.

He doesn’t know what you found out, I remind myself. And he doesn’t know about Tom either. I, at least, have the night before I need to worry about Adrian catching on.

“I’m warning you now,” he says when we reach his unit on the first floor. “It’s very bare bones. I haven’t had time to—well, that’s not true. I’ve been living here for a year, so I probably can’t use that excuse anymore.”

I just shrug.

“As long as you’re sure,” he says, and then pushes open the door. “And ignore the clutter too—that I can at least blame on my current hours at the non-profit, which have been…” His voice blends into the worn plaster walls as I take stock of the one bedroom.

The small space is bare-bones, but it’s also got the typical historic charm that a lot of unrenovated pre-war apartments have—herringbone hardwood floors, solid wood cabinetry, tall ceilings.

I bet he’s got double the closet space my apartment has.

“I’d offer you a tour,” Tom jokes. “But I’m pretty sure you can see the entire apartment from this angle. The high ceilings make up most of the square footage.”

“That’s okay,” I say.

I think I’ve had enough apartment tours tonight.

He unwraps the fuzzy blanket from his shoulders and lays it on the back of an olive green sleeper sofa. “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got water, wine, coffee, tea, and orange juice with a questionable expiration date.”

I’m not sure there’s anything I’d like more in this moment than a glass of wine the size of a Stanley thermos, but when I open my mouth to request just that—I pause.

Dulled senses and poor impulse control are probably the last thing I want tonight.

Tom suddenly adds, “Powdered greens are an option too, if you’re into that sort of thing. I usually take mine in the morning, before breakfast. They don’t taste nearly as bad they look, and I’m pretty sure they’re the only thing keeping me from complete and total malnourishment some weeks.”

My lip curls at the thought. “That’s…alright. Tea is fine.”

I’m still jittery with nerves as Tom tinkers in the kitchen, so I peruse his living room.

It’s not much bigger than mine, but he’s made surprisingly good use of the space. Both the sofa and the pine coffee table look like Pottery Barn cast-offs but—

“An antique rocking chair,” I note. “That’s an…interesting design choice.” It’s so bulky it takes up half the living room, the wood weathered and the plaid cushion stained and faded with age.

“An Amish rocking chair,” Tom calls from the kitchen.

“It belonged to my grandmother. Some suitor trying to profess his love built it for her fifty years ago…or something. The story used to change, depending on her mood,” he explains.

“I know it doesn’t really fit the space, but it’s one of the last things I have of her. ”

I tilt my head to the side. “Well, now that I know it’s not just some overpriced thrift store find, I like it a little more. It makes the space…cozy.”

Cozy seems to be the theme of Tom’s apartment.

At first, I assume the oddly proportioned polymer clay animals and handprint turkey paintings tacked to his walls must just be his unusual taste in art—but then I see the student names signed at the bottom.

That’s…more endearing than I’d like to admit.

It doesn’t end there, though.

The bookcase awkwardly stuffed between the boundary of the kitchen and the living room is littered with family photos.

A graying, blue-eyed couple embraces a baby-faced Tom at his high school graduation.

Then college. Then even here, in the city, with the flashing screens of Times Square behind them.

I’m guessing those two are the origin story for all of Tom’s kind, well-rounded normalcy.

There are other photos too—a younger, leaner Tom smiling brightly with a large group of friends on a hiking trip. And kayaking on the river. And sunbathing at the beach. And a bunch of other scenic places worthy of an annual Instagram highlight reel.

It becomes very clear that, despite living alone, Tom hasn’t ever been alone a day in his life.

Even the books, few as they are, are a connection to other people. At least, I highly doubt Tom is buying himself New York For Dummies and 69 Sex Positions You Never Knew About.

“Before you think I’m a total weirdo,” Tom says as he strolls back into the living room, cheeks tinted pink and two steaming mugs of tea in hand. “I promise there’s a story there.”

He hands me the mug, colorfully emblazoned with Iowa’s Okayest Teacher, and launches into some story regarding Janie and a lost bet. I tune him out almost immediately, fresh panic welling inside me.

What the hell am I going to do?

Every time I close my eyes, it feels like I’m still in Adrian’s office, opening the dossier and uncovering—

“You okay?” The weight of Tom’s hand resting on my shoulder draws me back to reality. “You’re trembling.”

You’re trembling, I hear Adrian’s voice in my head—soft and a little mocking, his hand around my—

“I’m okay.” I clear my throat and step back, but when that still isn’t enough, I scurry over to the couch and take a seat there. “Just, uh, a long night. As I said before.” I sip my tea with shaking hands.

Tom doesn’t tread after me. He doesn’t press. He doesn’t encroach any further into my bubble.

What he does say is: “Well, you’re safe. For as long as you need.”

I wish I could believe that, but I manage a wobbly smile and nod. “Thank you. For everything—but especially the ‘taking me in like a stray’ part.”

His smile is infinitely lighter than mine. “You’re not a stray. You’re a friend in need.”

And I can tell he means it.

There aren’t any quotation marks around friend. No hidden expectations about me sleeping over. No strings attached.

Tom is helping me for the sake of helping me.

And that does nothing to ease the guilt churning in my stomach.

He doesn’t even know he’s putting his life at risk.

He doesn’t know what—

“I’m sorry,” I suddenly blurt out, and his brows furrow. “About running out on our date. And then not texting you back. That was shitty, and I just got swept up in—”

—Adrian’s mind games—

“—life stuff,” I finish. “But you deserved better.”

Some part of me wishes he’d be a little bitter or resentful—if only to lessen the guilt about coming here tonight.

But there is nothing bitter or resentful about the gentle smile he offers me.

“Hey, I get it. Stuff comes up. Life gets in the way. No apology necessary.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

“You, uh…want some pajamas or something? That dress doesn’t look particularly comfortable to sleep in.

I’m pretty sure I’ve got something of an ex-girlfriend’s lying in the back of my closet or something. ”

Guilt burns my throat. “That’d be great.”

I’m antsy to be alone with my thoughts, and fortunately, Tom doesn’t linger beyond bringing me the modest cotton pajama set and pointing out which closet I can find extra blankets in.

But when I finally lay down on the sofa, the apartment dark and quiet save for the hiss of the radiator, exhaustion takes over.

***

The next time I open my eyes, it’s to the sun beaming through Tom’s living room window.

I sit up, blinking the remnants of sleep from my eyes—and then I register the sound of running water in the kitchen, and I perk up.

He’s already up?

Usually, I’m a light sleeper, especially out of my own bed, but last night’s constant influx of adrenaline and panic must’ve taken its toll.

“Good morning,” I yawn loudly, stretching out my limbs.

If the stiffness in my neck and back is any indication, I’ll probably be feeling the aftereffects of this sofa for a few days—but oh well.

“Please tell me you’ve brewed something caffeinated in there,” I call out as I meander off the couch.

No answer.

“I’m just joking, by the way,” I add. “You definitely do not need to make me coffee.”

No answer—but I can hear the water in the kitchen sink still running.

Maybe he’s got headphones in.

“Tom?” I pad toward the kitchen. “Are you still—”

The rest of that sentence dies with a choked gasp the moment I round the corner.

Because Tom is here.

His nearly empty green juice is sitting open on the counter. His kitchen sink is an overflow of soap bubbles.

And his dead body is lying on the linoleum tiles.