Police, her mind blurted out. She had to call them. But first she had to get out. She snatched her purse from the floor at the far end of the couch and bolted toward the front door. Opening it a crack, she checked outside. The hallway was empty and deadly quiet. She nearly flung herself into the hall and instinctively pulled the door closed behind her.
The elevator was just a few feet away and she stabbed frantically at the button. She heard a whooshing sound from far below as the car began to ascend. But then, too scared to wait, she rushed toward a door with an exit sign above it and yanked it open.
She was in a stairwell, the landing lit by a single lightbulb on the wall. She looked down the long shoot of empty space to the bottom. The stairs seemed to go on forever. Lake turned back to make sure no one was behind her, and then began to careen downward, letting her hand race along the railing for support. There seemed to be two of her-one tearing down the steps, terrified, the other watching from a distance and telling her what to do.
Six or seven flights down, as she stopped to catch her breath, she heard a sound. Her entire body froze as she listened. But it was just the groan of the elevator. She began to move again. Finally, she reached the ground floor, completely breathless. She pushed the door partly open and looked into the lobby. It was empty. Outside, the street was dark and deserted. She dashed through the lobby and vestibule and nearly stumbled out of the building. Down the street, a white delivery van was stopped at the intersection of Spring. She began to run toward it. Before she’d even gotten a few feet, the driver gunned the motor and shot off.
Lake spun around, checking behind her again. There was no one there. But she still needed to get help, to call 911. She fumbled frantically in her purse. She saw that she still had her dress in her hand. As she pulled out her BlackBerry, she stuffed her dress inside her purse.
She punched three numbers. When she heard the recorded voice announce “411” she realized that in her crazed state she’d called directory assistance, not 911. With trembling fingers, she disconnected the call and started again. But right before hitting the final 1 she stopped. What am I doing? she screamed to herself. Hotchkiss’s words replayed in her head: Don’t rob a bank. She hadn’t. But a man she’d just made love to had been murdered while she was still in his home.
Hotchkiss had said there was nothing wrong with having sex but surely he hadn’t meant casual sex with a near stranger-and a client to boot. And would the cops even believe her story? She thought of the explanation she would give them. That after she and Keaton had made love, she’d gone out to the terrace alone-and fallen asleep. While she was out there, snoozing in the night air, someone had entered the apartment and butchered her bedmate without her ever hearing a thing. Even though it was true it sounded ridiculous. They’d suspect she had done it.
Rubbing her forehead, she tried desperately to think. What she needed to do, she decided, was to just get home. She would be safe there and could decide how to handle things once she had a clear head. After checking once more behind her, she hurried down the street and swung right onto Spring Street. There would be cabs on Broadway. But then she stopped in her tracks. Once Keaton’s body was discovered, the police would surely interview everyone they could find who’d been in this area. And like she’d seen on TV crime shows, wouldn’t they also go to cab companies to see what fares had been picked up around this time of night in SoHo? A cabbie might easily recall her: a woman all alone, dressed in a trench coat. The police would find out who from the clinic had been at the dinner and put two and two together.
So she had to take the subway instead-and buy a MetroCard with cash.
There was a station for the C line at Sixth Avenue and Spring, she remembered, and that would take her to Eighty-sixth and Central Park West. But subway stations had cameras. What if the cops watched the tapes to see who’d entered any station within a certain radius? She ducked into the dark doorway of a building to calm herself. She felt short of breath, like she was being smothered. Calm down, she told herself. The best thing to do, she realized, was to walk-for blocks and blocks. And finally, when she was far enough away, she would find a taxi.
With her head lowered, she made her way to Broadway and then turned north. She walked fast, so fast a stitch came and went in her side. But she didn’t dare run-or else someone might take notice. She felt like one of those lost dogs she sometimes saw at night in the city, trotting along without ever stopping. Every half block, she checked behind her, terrified someone might be following.
For a while she saw practically no one. Sometimes a car or a delivery van would drive by and she’d duck in a doorway. At Houston Street she turned west and made her way to Seventh Avenue. Once there, she crossed the street and headed north. People began to emerge from apartment buildings, bound for work. She kept her eyes trained on the ground, not daring to make eye contact. In the east, she noticed, the sky began to grow light.
Just before six-thirty, she reached Twenty-third. Spots on her feet were raw from walking so far in her sandals, and though she was wearing only her trench coat, her back felt damp with sweat. A cab came barreling down Seventh and she hailed it, telling the driver to turn around and head to the Upper West Side. As she leaned back into the seat, tears of relief pricked her eyes.
She started to give her address and then stopped herself. The driver would have a record of it. Plus, she couldn’t let her doorman see her coming in at this hour. I have to go somewhere, she thought, but where? The driver glanced back at her through the Plexiglas.
“You gonna give me an address?” he said.
“Yes, yes,” she said. She blurted out the cross streets of a diner twenty blocks south of her apartment, where she sometimes took the kids before school. She would wait there and go home closer to eight, when the doorman would be busy hailing cabs for people.
The diner was half full. Some people sat in groups or pairs, but most were alone, reading the Post or Daily News or a paperback book. She made her way toward the back, to a table in the corner. Without thinking, she started to unbutton the top of her trench and then realized she had nothing but her panties on underneath. The thought almost made her laugh manically. She rested her head against the tips of her fingers, trying to regroup. On the table was a smudge of hardened ketchup, and the sight recalled the huge, horrible stain next to Keaton. Tears welled in her eyes again. He had touched her, made love to her. And now he was dead.
She ordered coffee, and though the taste nearly made her ill, she forced herself to drink it. She needed the caffeine, she needed to break through the dense fog of terror and think. For the first time she asked herself why-why was Keaton dead? Was it a burglary gone awry? There had been no sign of forced entry; the apartment hadn’t looked “tossed.” The murderer must be someone who knew him, Lake deduced. Keaton looked as if he’d been attacked as he slept. That meant someone had gone there with the sole purpose of slashing Keaton’s throat. And if she had been in the bed with him, she would be dead now, too. She let out a gasp at the thought. Her kids-it would have ruined their lives.
For a few moments Lake fought with the idea of calling the police after all. Her failure to get in touch before now wouldn’t be hard to explain-she’d fled in panic, worried that the killer had still been in the apartment. And the forensic evidence would confirm that she didn’t kill Keaton.