Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 23818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
“See?” I say triumphantly when he returns it to me. “Nothing.”
He smiles, nodding his head.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” are his words. “I understand this isn’t standard for a first date, but I assure you, it’s necessary. Now if you could follow me, Ms. Martin, I’m happy to take you to your location.”
And outside waits a black town car, totally indistinguishable from any of the other black town cars that zip around the city day and night. Tom holds the door open for me, and I lower my curvy form inside, looking around. Hmm, totally standard. A few bottles of water in the side pockets, as well as some magazines behind the driver’s seat. The smell of new leather wafts luxuriously, and I lean back with a sigh.
But then I see it. The tiny eye of a camera staring at me from the dashboard. It’s a mounted lens, and I gasp, lunging forwards.
“What is that?” I ask, pointing at the black machine.
Tom is unruffled, starting the car and pulling smoothly away from the curb.
“All of our cars have mounted dashboard cameras for safety purposes,” he says.
“Let me guess,” I say wryly. “Standard policy and procedure?”
“You got it,” he confirms, nodding slightly with his eyes on the road. “Now please sit back and relax Ms. Martin,” he says. “We’ll be at the location in no time.”
And idly, I watch as the Manhattan streetscape passes me by. At seven thirty, there are all sorts of people out, from corporate drones getting out of their jobs to sidewalk hustlers selling contraband purses and cell phones. Finally, we pull up in front of a non-descript apartment tower.
“This is it?” I ask skeptically, craning my head to look upwards. The building is huge, with a slightly shabby exterior that could do with a good power-washing.
“This is it,” confirms Tom, pulling the car to a stop at the curb. “Ma’am, I can’t park here so I’ll just drop you off. If you go in and tell the concierge who you are, they’ll buzz you right up.”
With another sigh, I get out, almost tripping on the curb. But a bellhop rushes over then, bowing and smiling.
“Welcome Ms. Martin,” he says. “Right this way please.”
And to my astonishment, once I’m in the lobby, there’s a woman waiting for me.
“Ms. Martin?” she greets, blonde hair pulled into a sleek bun. Her smile is professional and gracious, and she wears an elegant blue suit with mid-stack heels. “I’m Lavinia. Mr. Half is expecting you. Come with me please.”
I don’t even have time to say anything because within moments, we’re in an elevator that has only one button on the panel.
“We’re going to the penthouse?” I say, astonished, staring at the lights on top that show us whizzing past all the other floors.
“Yes, that’s right,” Lavinia replies pleasantly. “I trust the car ride here was satisfactory?”
I swallow again, nodding.
“Good,” she says with a nod. “Tom is one of the best. Ah, here we are. Follow me please.”
And with a ding, the elevator swooshes to a halt, the doors silently opening to reveal a hallway with only one door at the end. But a chill runs down my neck because the passageway is endlessly long, and I feel like there are cameras trained on my every movement as Lavinia and I walk along the carpeted path.
She stops before a large mahogany door and knocks, but doesn’t wait for anyone to answer. Instead, the blonde merely reaches for the handle and pushes it open, looking over her shoulder to smile at me.
“Mr. Half is waiting for you inside,” she says pleasantly. “This is where we part, Ms. Martin. Have a nice time tonight and don’t hesitate to buzz if you need anything.”
By now, I’m ready to scream because I feel like I’m in the movie The Shining where at any moment, I’m going to stumble upon a spooky pair of identical twins, or some monster is going to jump out at me from behind a potted plant. But what can I do? I’ve come this far, and there’s no way out. There should be an emergency stairwell somewhere because according to NYC fire code, all buildings must have multiple exit routes. But I don’t see anything, so I nod stiffly before pushing the door open further.
“Thank you Lavinia,” I manage before stepping inside. “I appreciate it.”
And with that, the heavy wooden slab swings shut slowly behind me. The foyer to the apartment is gracious and well-lit, with a crystal chandelier hanging over my head. It’s opulent in a stately and dignified way, with twin pedestals on either side topped with mirrors.
“Hello?” I call tentatively. “Robert?”
“In here,” growls a male voice. “Come on in, Bridget.”
Okay, this is freaky because I feel like I’ve heard that voice before. But where? He kind of sounds like my local barista, or maybe my seventh grade math teacher. Tentatively, I walk forwards and towards an archway leading to another room.