The drive is quiet. It's early, before rush hour, and all the traffic is moving in the other direction.
The cabbie drops me off with a hope he was worth it look.
I try to shrug it off. Copy Simon's calm composure. Strong, intense, above it all.
And, soft, somewhere underneath his defenses.
Someplace I want to find, study, hold close.
Fuck.
No feelings. I'm not falling for him. He's not falling for me.
We're having fun.
And last night was fun.
Period.
The end.
The doorman looks at me funny.
I force a smile. "Yes, Sam?"
His eyes flit to my bare legs. "There's someone waiting for you, Ms. Moyer."
Huh?
"A woman. In the lobby. I told her I didn't know when you'd return, suggested she leave a note, but she was insistent."
The same as the woman at the office.
Either she's scared and desperate or—
No, no matter what her role is, she's scared and desperate. I need to be careful.
"She says she knows you, but she won't give her name." He motions to the lobby inside.
The pretty blond woman in designer sunglasses and a linen shirt, hands around an expensive stroller.
An Upper East Side mom on her day off. Wearing clothes that hide bruises.
Poised, despite the circumstances. Used to keeping up appearances.
"I can ask her to leave," he says.
"No. She's a friend."
He shoots me another funny look. A friend like the friend who kept you out all night, huh? This is a nice building, you know.
But she looks more like she belongs than I do. Especially given my current outfit.
I smile, thank him for his help, step inside.
I'm not giving him the satisfaction of riling me.
I had sex last night.
The US might not be at our peak of civil liberties, but it's still a free fucking country.
My personal life is none of his business. Especially if it's happening outside the building.
The woman turns to me. Studies me with gentle grey eyes. "Ms. Moyer."
It's not a question, but I nod and offer my hand anyway. "Can I help you?"
"Celine." She doesn't give a last name. "We threw a gala together a few years ago."
We did. "Arts in public school?"
"Yes."
"That was a nice event."
"Thank you."
The details are fuzzy. Spring weather. Hotel ballroom. Pink and blue decor. Understated elegance.
She was on the board of the charity. Did most of the planning.
We met briefly. Two or three times, maybe, and never alone. But I remember the champagne toast. The way she looked at me.
The curiosity in her eyes. Like I was a knight in shining armor.
But then I see possible victims everywhere. They are everywhere—domestic violence is disturbingly common—but I can't help people until they ask for help.
If she's here—
"Can we talk upstairs?" she says.
"The office is more secure," I say.
"Even so." Fear slips into her voice, but just barely. She's good at hiding it. Used to hiding it. "The office on the second floor. The CEO is a friend of my…"
Her husband.
Even if the friend means well, he might give her away by accident. It happens all the time.
I try to remember the event. There was a man with her. He was older. Graying but still good-looking.
Not as beautiful as she is.
Or as handsome as Simon.
But who is?
If she spends her free time throwing galas, she must be married to someone rich and powerful.
And she's here, in my building.
I can say no. Insist we go to the office or a hotel or somewhere else far from my home.
But she might get scared. Run away. Run to a less trustworthy person. Or right back to the arms of her husband.
I can't risk that.
"Follow me," I say
"Thank you." Her shoulders fall with relief.
"Do you need help?" I motion to the stroller in front of her. Not that I know how to help. Despite all Lee's fertility talk and the day-to-day details of my job, I don't have much experience with babies.
"Just quiet," she says. "He's finally sleeping."
She looks at his round face with adoration.
She's leaving for him.
Because she's afraid for him.
A lot of people who won't raise a hand to protect themselves will die for their children.
My mom would have died for me. She protected me so many times, but it still took her years to leave.
My head spins as I lead Celine to the elevator.
I push the button. I force a smile. I try not to let my thoughts make it to my expression.
This is why I don't interact with survivors often.
Everything is loaded.
I'm not objective or smart or safe.
My memories come to the surface.
The feelings come to the surface.
And feelings are contagious. My fear and anger spread around the room.
There's something to be said for group therapy. For finding people who've been through what you've been through, people who understand.
But there's a reason why those sessions are led by a professional.
They know how to help.
They know how to wade through deep water without drowning.
I flail so hard I drag others down with me.