with her fingertips, she sucked in a breath then flipped over to head back the way she had just come.
The natatorium wasn’t usually empty but it might as well have been tonight. Only two other swimmers occupied the lanes to either side, their strokes splashing loud enough to keep her company. Everyone was sleeping off their Thanksgiving feasts; going to the YMCA was the last thing on their minds.
In general, Alex liked it when no one else was around and she was the only one in the water. Tonight, though, she welcomed the other swimmers. There was something creepy about the echoing walls, something unnerving about the size of the room.
She was nervous and edgy, more behind her anxiety than just the holidays: For the past few days she’d been sure someone was following her. Every time she’d stepped outside her apartment, she’d experienced the horrible sensation of eyes on her back. Her neck would tingle and she’d look around sharply, but so far she’d spotted no one. The feeling refused to leave, however.
Thrusting these thoughts away, she swam for almost forty minutes, her arms and legs growing heavy toward the end. A half-hour workout was her usual maximum, but tonight she wanted to tire herself out completely. She finished the final lap then clung to the edge of the pool and fought to regain her breath. When her huffing and puffing slowed and she looked around, she realized everyone else had left. She was all alone.
Paddling quickly to the edge of the pool, Alex climbed out and grabbed the towel she’d draped over a chair. She made her way to the ladies’ locker room and within fifteen minutes, she’d showered and dressed and was on her way to the parking lot.
The day had been a repeat of Alex’s other Thanksgivings. Over the years, she’d developed a finely tuned ritual, a way she both remembered then walked away from her past. The rite was never completely successful of course, but one day it might be. One day she might find herself unable to recall every single detail.
As she always did, she’d started the morning by writing a letter to Toby. There were ten of the white envelopes now, sitting in a box, just waiting. He would never read the letters, of course, but they weren’t for her little brother anyway. They were for her. She didn’t want to forget him. When she finished that task, she sat back and closed her eyes. The memories she kept tightly guarded the rest of the year were then allowed out.
The empty house. The icy road. The look on Gabriel O’Rourke’s face when he’d told her her family was dead. As soon as she could, rendering the images with sharp, swift strokes, Alexis had re-created the photo that he’d ripped from her hands that night. Holding that sketch, she sat in the middle of her bed and let the past flood her. At first, the ritual had almost killed her, but lately, the mental pictures had begun to dim. If she hadn’t had her charcoal memory, her mother’s eyes would be a blur now, her father’s expression a dim relief. Alex wasn’t sure if this was good or bad.
She immersed herself in the pain for an hour and then she stopped. The ghosts went back into the lock-box she kept inside her heart. The framed drawing returned to its position on her nightstand and she forced herself through the day.
The YMCA had been a last-minute addition to her routine. Because of her anxiety about being followed, the ritual hadn’t cooperated and the past kept breaking in, flashes of the night she wanted to forget coming back. Reaching her car, Alex knew she’d have to think of something else to do to keep it all at bay. She’d pick up some movies, she decided impulsively, throwing her gym bag into the car and starting it. Something that would keep her mind more occupied than the book she’d been saving for that evening.
She stopped at the video store down the road from her apartment and grabbed two mindless films. The Thai place next door was open, so she went in there as well and ordered takeout. By the time she reached home, she’d managed to kill another hour. Glancing down at her watch, she figured she only had four more hours to endure. She’d allow herself a single sleeping pill then hopefully wake up to a day with fewer memories.
The parking lot of her apartment was almost as empty as the YMCA’s pool had been. The complex was a small one near the University of Texas campus and a lot of the university people lived there. Students and professors alike, they were a transient bunch, coming and going with each semester, a fast turnover of neighbors who fled during the holidays and summer. Some people wouldn’t have liked it for that very reason, but that was exactly why Alex had selected the apartment. She didn’t want long-term neighbors who had to know your life’s history. When you didn’t have one you could talk about, conversation turned stilted.
Tonight, though, just like at the pool, she would have welcomed a few more souls. The hollow echo of her tennis shoes slapping the sidewalk was too reminiscent, the cold too chilling, the empty feeling too familiar. She had friends she could have called, other teachers, people from church… A number of them had even invited her to their homes for the holiday meal, but she’d turned down all the offers as she always did at Thanksgiving. She needed to be lonely on Thanksgiving.
But knowing this didn’t diminish the emotion. Or the feelings of being frightened that were mixed with the loneliness. She ordered herself to buck up. She’d get through this year just as she had the other nine. By sheer grit and determination.
Alex climbed the stairs to her second-floor landing, then shifted the gym bag and the two plastic sacks to her left hand so she could unlock her door. Stepping inside, she closed the door behind her and locked it once more.
Then she froze.
Something wasn’t right.
Someone had been inside her apartment.
Her glance shot to her right, into the well-lit living room. Her apartment was close to the pool and the lights from the patio came through her blinds at night. Bright lines sifted their way through the open slats to reveal the sofa and two chairs. They were empty. To her left, behind a wall, was a small kitchen.
Alex carefully emptied her arms, the sacks going to the floor, her gym bag dropping silently to a nearby table. With her eyes still sweeping the room in front of her, she felt behind her for the bat she kept by the front door. Gripping the taped handle with both hands, she advanced into the entry, her back to the wall, and lifted the bat to her shoulder as she stepped around the wall.
The kitchen was as empty as it had been when she’d left.
Her pulse ringing, Alex returned to the hallway that led to the guest bedroom. The room served as her studio and was filled with art equipment, a worktable and a potter’s wheel, a small loom and drawing supplies. As she eased around the doorway, her eyes jerked to one corner, her heart stopping with a violent thump. A tall shadow was poised by the window. A second later, her scream died in her throat.
She was looking at her easel.
Sick with fright, she returned to the corridor and forced herself to continue. The guest bath was empty, too. The only rooms left were her bedroom and bath.
She crept toward the back of the apartment, her palms so wet her grip on the bat was slipping. Suddenly she wished she hadn’t done the extra laps at the pool. The polished piece of oak felt as if it weighed fifty pounds. She wasn’t sure she could swing it if she had to.
But her bedroom was just as empty as the rest of the place, the white matelassé bedspread smooth and pristine, her slippers tossed carelessly beside the bed, her robe in the chair on the right. Her chest eased slightly, her fear starting to fade.
It wouldn’t have been the first time on Thanksgiving that she’d imagined the presence of another person in her home.
Her
