The Sitter Read Free Page B

them.
    How could I know that this was the day that all the horror would begin?
    Teresa lives on West Eightieth Street, just a few doors down from the legendary H & H Bagels store. H & H has its ovens going twenty-four hours a day, and the wonderful aroma of baking bagels floats up the block—and into Teresa’s windows. She says she’ll never move.
    She shares a three-bedroom apartment with two other women in an old building with a marble lobby and an elevator that creaks and groans and barely makes it to the eighth floor. Teresa and her roommates have covered the walls of the apartment with movie posters and furnished the place with things from IKEA, a few old chairs found on the street, and a massive, brown leather couch that sits in the middle of the living room. No one is sure how it got there.
    The kitchen is about the size of a phone booth—no kidding. They have to go in there one at a time or they might get stuck. But like a lot of the older West Side apartments, the ceilings are high, the windows are tall, and the rest of the rooms are big and comfortable.
    Sarah, one of Teresa’s roommates, answered the door. “Just heading out for a run,” she said, slipping past me. “Teresa’s in her room.”
    I found Teresa sitting sideways on her bed, legs crossed, leaning against the wall. She wore a green-and-white-striped tank top over faded denim jeans. She had her hair piled up, a green bandanna tied around it. She had no makeup on, which made her face very pale, her green eyes even more prominent than usual.
    She raised the Mary Higgins Clark book from her lap. “Ellie—hi. Have you read this one?”
    “Nope. I haven’t read any mysteries since Nancy Drew.”
    Teresa snickered. “You used to read those things? They were so old-fashioned and dorky.”
    “I know. But I didn’t care. I read a whole bunch of them. I loved them. I loved solving the mystery before Nancy did. But my mom made me stop reading them. She said I had to start reading
real
books.”
    “Well, this is a really good mystery,” Teresa said. “I’m almost done, and I can’t figure out who the stalker is.”
    Of course that made me think of Clay.
    “Hey, I miss you at work,” Teresa said, pulling me from my thoughts. “I got used to seeing you every day. You know. Having lunch together and everything. Did the agency send you to another job?”
    I shook my head. “No. I’m still waiting by the phone.”
    “I asked Mrs. Snow if she had anything for you. Full-time. But she said there’s a hiring freeze.”
    “Teresa, that’s so nice of you.”
    She shrugged. “Hey, we’re pals, right?”
    Teresa and I had met at Charles Schwab the previous December. I was temping for the woman who had the cubicle next to Teresa’s. Teresa and I started talking over the cubicle wall—we hadn’t even seen each other yet—and pretty soon we were laughing and gossiping and having a great time.
    I was so glad to make a new friend, a real friend. My first year in the big city, and it was hard to get to know people. Most people I met seemed to be racing from place to place, too busy to make new friends.
    Of course, I had hooked up with Clay. But that wasn’t like having a friend. Not anymore, anyway.
    I spun the chair away from her dressing table and sat down. I found myself staring at Teresa’s giant poster of Johnny Depp.
    “Why didn’t I notice that before?” I asked.
    “It’s new.” She grinned. “You like?”
    I studied it. He had his slick, black hair plastered straight back, and he stared out with deep, dark, sad eyes. “Teresa, why Johnny Depp?”
    “Because he’s not human,” she said, staring at it with me. “He’s a Martian or something. See his face? It’s perfect.”
    I opened my mouth to say something, but she didn’t give me a chance.
    “No. Really. I mean, it’s perfect. Look at
that
side; then look at
that
side. You see? It’s symmetrical. Both sides are the same. He’s the only human in the universe who has a