If I Were You Read Free Page B

with every piece of my being. He'd gone through
Rebecca's things. He knew what was in that drawer. I don’t like this man, and
I’m suddenly immensely aware of the fact that I am alone with him, miles from
the highway, not another customer anywhere near—at least not that I've seen or
heard thus far.  
    “I don’t want to know her secrets,” I say firmly, keeping my
voice remarkably steady considering my knees are wobbly. “I want to find her
and return her things to her.”
    He studies me a long moment, his gaze as sharp as the slice
of discomfort digging deeper inside me. Then finally, when I am about to choke
on the silence, he says, “Like I said. Check the drawer.” His lips hint at a
sardonic smile, and he pushes off the doorjamb. “I’ll be back to lock the
exterior building at nine. You won’t want to be inside when I do.” Without
another word, he is gone.
    I don’t move. I can’t move. I want to slam the door shut but
don’t dare, not when it locks from the outside, a thought that terrifies me.
Seconds tick by and I wait as the man’s footsteps fade away into the distance. Away .
Yes. Away. I have to get away from this place. I rush to the glossy mahogany dresser
against the wall and yank open the top right drawer. Empty. I try the left.
God, my heart is in my throat, threatening to choke me. I have to stop and
force myself to inhale, and slowly exhale. I am shaking and irrationally
frightened. I count to thirty and I can breathe again. I’m okay. Everything is
okay. I open the left drawer and the breath I’d finally found again hitches at
the contents. A black, twelve-by-eight, velvet box with a lock. A red silk
scarf. Three red leather-bound journals.
    My teeth worry my bottom lip. I dart a look toward the
hallway and then back to the drawer. I am intrigued despite my nerves, but
afraid the creepy man will return.
    I quickly refocus on the drawer, and search for a key to the
box, telling myself there might be contact information inside. That I am not
caving to carnal curiosity. I flip open each of the journals, shake them for
loose papers, for a key. A brochure falls from inside one of them, and I start
to shove it aside, exposing several more brochures in the process.
    I pick one of them up and read "Allure Art
Gallery," San Francisco. They are all Allure brochures. Allure is the
largest, most prestigious gallery among San Francisco’s many. I remember Ella
mentioning art she’d found in the unit. It appears that despite our vastly
different love lives, Rebecca and I share a common thread in our interest in
art. I love everything about art, from the history to the creative process.
There was a time when I might have cut off my right arm to work in the art
world. It’s what I went to school for, what I’d dreamt of. A dream I’d given up
years ago when life, bills, and responsibilities took precedence.
    A loud crash sounds somewhere outside, and I nearly jump out
of my own skin. My hand balls on my chest, willing my heart not to jump right
through it. Thunder. The sound had been thunder. It is about to storm. Another
loud rumble radiates through the walls, echoing as if I am in a cave–-almost
like an omen of warning telling me to hurry the heck up. Oh good grief, my imagination
is running wild, but I won’t ignore this feeling of unease.
    I grab my purse, stack the journals in my arms, which I
justify taking because they are my only hope of finding a clue to Rebecca’s
recent whereabouts. I am about to exit the room, but I hesitate for a moment
before turning back and rushing to the dresser to retrieve the box. My hands
are still shaking as I manage to juggle the items I’m holding and attach the
lock to the storage unit.
    Quickly, I head down a narrow, dimly lit hallway, past rows
of locked units like the one I’ve just left. I feel like I am Alice in
Wonderland about to be sucked down the rabbit hole. I exit the garage-style
main doorway to find a now dark parking lot made darker