Under My Skin

“Hard to see his face, you’re right. Email it to me,” he says. “I’ll have our guys work their magic. Maybe we’ll get something.”

He hands the phone back to me. I quickly forward the image to his email address. We sit a moment, both of us lost in thought.

“So, look,” he says, dropping a hand on my arm. “The next time you see him, call me right away. Linger if you can safely. I’ll get there fast or send someone.”

“Okay,” I agree.

We talk awhile longer. He promises that he’s following up this lead with everything he has. He must have other cases, other priorities, but when I’m with him he always makes me feel like Jack is the most important thing on his mind. He’s convinced his superiors not to close the case, won’t turn it over to cold cases, even though he’s hinted that there’s pressure on him to do that. It’s been nearly a year.

“This new information,” he says. “I have a feeling about it.”

I do, too. Why does that make me feel worse instead of better?

“I’m not letting this go,” he says. “I promise you that.”

* * *

Though I’m not really dressed for it in heels and a pencil skirt, I walk up Fifth Avenue. My head is vibrating, thoughts spinning—Detective Grayson, and killers for hire, how maybe for a thousand dollars someone ended my husband’s life. A thousand dollars. And if that’s true, is the man who killed Jack the same hooded man following me? I swallow hard, there’s a bulb of fear and anger stuck in my throat.

I let the current of the city take me. Its energy pumps and moves; it doesn’t stop for any reason, ever, not even the death of the most important person in your life. It just keeps pulsing, pushing, a flow that you have no choice but to follow.

At the light, I dig into my bag and find that amber vial Layla gave me—not the sleeping pills, but the pills she said were for nerves. I dry swallow a white one. No idea what it is. I really don’t care as long as it quiets the siren of anxiety in my head.

Then I put my headphones in, and listen to my go-to, a David Bowie playlist. I keep walking, heading toward the office. I’m just getting into it, feeling lighter, less mired down, when the music stops and the phone starts ringing. Dr. Nash returning my call.

“Poppy?” she says when I answer. “Everything okay?”

Still marching up the street, I tell her everything—the dreams, Layla’s ideas, Detective Grayson’s revelations. I always think it looks crazy, when someone has her headphones in, gesticulating, walking, talking to someone whom no one else can hear. The modern age has turned us all into ranting schizophrenics.

“That’s a lot,” Dr. Nash says when I’m done. “Why don’t you come in on Thursday? We can talk it through.”

I almost tell her. That I’ve been mucking with my dosage, taking mystery pills, drinking, that last night I took Layla’s stronger sleeping meds, two of them. That I just took something else without even knowing what it is. But what does that make me? I stay quiet.

“Okay,” I agree. “Why am I dreaming more?”

It feels disingenuous to ask this question when I know she only has part of the information she needs to answer it. Still I’m hoping for an answer that makes me feel better.

“You’re probably not dreaming more?” It sounds like a question. “Perhaps you’re just remembering more, which—could be a good thing.”

How? I wonder. How can it be a good thing to lose Jack again night after night? I know her answer about dreams being the gateway to our subconscious, how it’s a place where we work out the things our conscious mind presses away. That pain is a doorway we must pass through to get to the other side of grief and loss. She’s saying something to that effect as I flash on the filthy bathroom floor, the heat of that stranger’s kiss.

“I’d like you to stay on this lower dosage,” she says.

Here again I almost spill it, then don’t. I silently vow to give Layla back her pills, stay on the dosage Dr. Nash prescribed. I’ll tough out any hard nights ahead. Because I want to get off the pills, too. I don’t want her to know how badly I need them, how painful is the night. Daytime is easy; I can busy-addict myself into constant motion. It’s when dusk falls, and energy lags, that the demons start whispering in my ears. When the sun goes down, darkness creeps in, coloring my world gray.

“If you dream vividly again, don’t forget that journal,” Dr. Nash is saying. “Write everything down for our session. Poppy, I really do want us to think of this as good news.”

“Good news,” I repeat, not feeling it.

“If your memories of that lost time are coming back, it means that you’re stronger. And if Detective Grayson has a lead, you may be closer to closure on what happened to Jack. I know you don’t think it matters, but it could be so healing to finally understand.”

That sketched face swims before me, just a drawing of someone who may or may not be real. Was that the last face Jack saw? The thought gnaws at my stomach, cinches my shoulders tight. Why wasn’t I with him?

I want to argue with her. How would it be healing to think someone hired a man to kill Jack? Who would do that? Why? A thought, something dark, tugs at me, something from one of my dreams last night. When I chase after it, it disappears.

“Maybe,” I say instead.

“I’ll see you Thursday,” she says. “But call me if you need me. Day or night. You know that.”

Then, just as I end the call and stop to put my phone in my bag—there he is, following a half a block behind me. A hulking man in a black hoodie, head bent. He stops suddenly when I turn to him, disappears into a doorway.

I quickly dial Detective Grayson, but he doesn’t pick up. Most people would be running away. But instead, I start moving back downtown in his direction.

“He’s here,” I tell Grayson’s voice mail. “Following me up Fifth Avenue. I’m at Fifth and Eighteenth, moving south, back downtown. He ducked into a doorway and I’m following.”

Which is crazy. Maybe even—dare I say it—suicidal. But I keep walking, hugging closer to the buildings, waiting for him to pop back out of the shadows. It’s broad daylight, the avenue as ever a rush of professionals, artists, students, tourists, shoppers flitting between Sephora and Armani Exchange, H&M, Victoria’s Secret; traffic a stuttering wave of sound and motion. But it’s all distant white noise as I move toward where I’m sure I saw him disappear. I press myself against the building and then spring into the doorway that’s set back from the building wall.

There’s no one there. How can that be?

I reach and pull on the handle of the large black metal double door between Aldo and Zara. But it’s locked tight. Suddenly seized by anger, I find myself pounding on it.

“I saw you,” I yell. “I know you’re following me.”

The door stays locked, and no one comes. I get a few sideways glances, but what’s one more shouting crazy person on a city street?

I pound on the door again, the metal cool, the sound reverberating.

What is it? A delivery entrance? I stand back to look at it; it’s the armored entry to a keep, a demon hiding inside. Pure rage rises, a tidal wave. I don’t even try to hold it back, let it wash over me, take me away. I get to pounding again. Not just knocking, but channeling all my anger, all my frustration into that metal, barely even noticing that I’m hurting myself, that the door doesn’t budge, that no one comes.

And that’s how Detective Grayson finds me, violently banging on the door, yelling.

“Hey, hey,” he says, coming up from behind. I feel his hands on my shoulders, turn and shake him off hard. He steps back, hands up.

“Take it easy, Poppy.”

He’s illegally parked his unmarked Dodge Charger right beside us, traffic flowing around it, honking and annoyed at yet one more pointless obstacle to traffic flow.

“He disappeared through here,” I tell him. I’m breathless, sweating from the heat, the effort, the fear. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, brow creased with concern.

“Okay,” he says putting strong hands on my shoulders. “Take a breath.”

I do that, feel some calm returning now that he’s here.

The door swings open then, and an impossibly young, svelte woman in a black shift dress and thigh-high boots stands before us. She looks back and forth between us, blankly annoyed.

Grayson flashes his shield.

“We’re pursuing a suspect,” he says. His tone is comfortingly official, validating. There was someone there. There was. “Did someone come in through this entrance in the last ten minutes?”

She shakes her head and her long black hair shimmers.

“No,” she says. “I’m the manager here and this is the service entrance. There’s a bell?” She points to it meaningfully. “You ring and someone comes to open it. But there haven’t been any deliveries this afternoon.”

“I saw someone come in here,” I say, more sharply than I mean to. She blinks glittery eyelids to express her displeasure. Her eyebrows are shaped into high arches; a hoop sparkles in her nose.

“No,” she says as though she’s never been more certain of anything in her life. “Not this door.”

“Mind if we have a look around?” asks Grayson easily. She regards him uncertainly, then steps aside. We both walk into the storage area—boxes, racks crushed with clothes, standing steam irons, gift-wrapping station, no menacing strange men in hoods. Adrenaline, the power of rage, abandons me, leaving me feeling foolish, hot with shame, shaky now. Did I really see him come in here?

Grayson’s standing by the door. “Where does this go?”

“Back to the shop,” she says. “There’s a fire exit through the break room on the other side of the store, but an alarm sounds if you push through it.”

“There’s no other exit from this storeroom?”

“Well, just out back, to the alley behind the buildings, where we dump the trash.”

Grayson follows her and I trail behind. The dim alley reeks of rotting garbage; fire escapes track up the surrounding buildings giving way to a stingy square of sky up above.

“The street gate is locked,” she says. “Only the super has the key. Want me to get him?”

Detective Grayson looks at me and I shake my head.

“I’m sorry.” My voice is a rasp. “I was sure I saw him come in here.”

There’s that look again from the detective. I know it well—worried confusion. What’s wrong with Poppy?

On the street: “Are you okay?” He rests a steadying hand again on my shoulder. “You seem—”

“What?” I ask. “Crazy, unstable, a wreck?”

“Let’s go with—unsettled.”

His comforting grin settles me a bit. For a second, I flash on my father, how good he was at talking me through spirals of emotion, bouts of worry. Oh, you’re too sensitive, my mother would sniff. You better get a thicker skin. But not my dad; he always knew what to say. Okay, just breathe. Let’s break this down. What’s really going on?

“Let me give you a lift home,” says Detective Grayson when I don’t say anything else. I can’t prove what I saw, so there’s no point in trying.

We climb into the Charger, plain and white on the outside but high-tech within, a buzzing radio, mounted laptop, all manner of blinking lights on panels. The button for the siren is a tantalizing shiny red, and I fight the urge to press it.

“Maybe he ducked into a different doorway,” he offers as we snake up Fifth.

“Maybe.”

I’d have sworn it was that doorway. But obviously not, and that’s the hard part. Because what we see, what we think we see, what we remember, isn’t always reliable. In fact, it rarely is. Like for months after Jack died, he was everywhere. I’d see a tall man with a lion’s mane of hair and my heart would lurch with joy and hope, crashing into despair milliseconds later. Or I’d imagine him so vividly walking into the room that I almost saw him. Or like those lost days of my “break.” I lived those days, went places, saw people, did things, but the more I press in, trying to remember, the deeper and darker that space becomes.

The eye, the memory—they’re the trickiest liars. Only the camera lens captures the truth, and just for a moment. Because that’s what the truth is: a ghost. Here and gone. As Grayson drives, I scroll through the pictures on my phone again and find that grainy image of my shadow stalker.

Who are you?

Who was I during those lost days?

Layla spent two days looking for me, visiting all the places we frequented together with a picture of me until finally I came stumbling into her lobby, apparently wearing the red dress from my dream. Did I know that detail? Had she told me at one point what I was wearing, what I looked like, and I just filed it away? Or was my dream, as she suggested, an actual memory?

“I’m going to hang around awhile,” Detective Grayson says as he pulls in front of my building. “Out here, in my car. I have some calls to make, emails to answer. I can do it here for a while, just, you know—in case. Why don’t you get some rest?”

Part of me wants to tell him that I’m grateful. Thankful that he hasn’t given up, doesn’t urge me to let it go and move on, that he still cares about what happened to Jack, what happens to me. But a bigger part of me is not grateful. How urgently I wish we’d never met, that I had no reason to know Detective Grayson. I leave the car without a word.

* * *

I tap over the limestone floors of my lobby, breezing past the day doorman, who is on the phone but offers a friendly wave. In the elevator I text Ben and tell him to cancel my appointments and calls for the afternoon, that I’ve come down with a stomach thing. It’s not ideal, but I’m addled and shaky, in no condition to talk to clients or anyone else. Inside the apartment, I close and lock the door.

Leaning against it, I slide down and sit on the floor, the long hallway that leads to the rest of the apartment dark, lined with photographs—his, mine, us together. The only thing I’ve managed to do since moving here is hang those photographs. Sitting on the hardwood, I think tears will come, but they don’t.

Instead I notice that one of the photographs lies on the floor, surrounded by broken glass.

I haul myself up and walk over to it, the apartment unnaturally quiet. The thick-paned windows on the twentieth floor keep most city noise at bay. The glass crackles beneath my feet as I retrieve the picture. Me and Jack, on our honeymoon in Paris. What a cliché! he’d complained. He’d wanted to go Thailand, lie around on some isolated beach, sleep in a thatch hut. But a Paris honeymoon was my only girlhood fantasy and he complied, because he always did. He always wanted me to have the things that I wanted. I can’t even tell where we were, a selfie so close that everything behind disappeared, our faces so goofy with love that it’s almost embarrassing to see.

I hold the shattered frame. The picture hanger is still on the wall. And the photo seems too far from its original space to just have fallen somehow.

My breath comes heavy. I should move back slowly toward the door and run downstairs to Detective Grayson. Instead, I turn and walk toward the living room.

It takes me a moment to notice it, but when I do my stomach bottoms out. Sitting on the low coffee table between the couches is an orchid in a pot. A fat, snow-white bloom drips heavily from a bowed stalk. There’s a single white card tucked into the thick green leaves at its base, a note in black scrawl.

I remember you.

Don’t you remember me?

7

“Let’s go over this again,” says Grayson.

He sits on the couch across from me, leaning forward, his dark gaze pinning me to my seat. I know that look; he’s been watching me like that for a year. As though he might still suspect something dark just beneath the surface of what he sees.

Layla’s already here, ministering. She’s gotten me a blanket, which I’m not using, brewed coffee that I’m not drinking. Now she’s hovering, sitting on the couch beside me, leaning in so close that her thigh is fused with mine. Her foot is tapping in that way it does when she’s nervous or annoyed. She’s staring at that white blossom as it quivers in front of us, at Grayson, around the apartment, with a kind of narrow-eyed suspicion.

“You entered your apartment—” he leads.

This is another thing he does, asks me to repeat what I told him, once, twice, three times. Looking for the inconsistencies of lies, I suppose.

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