Welcome to Castle Cove

Call her back later

Call her back later

I silence my phone and plan to call Katie back. She’s a bit of a party girl and I’m desperate for a quiet night at home. I also consider inviting her over for wine and pizza, but from what I know of her in our short acquaintance, she would only use that as an opportunity to wear me down.

If I’m being honest, I hate people like that. People who won’t accept the boundaries that are in place and challenge them—as if it isn’t hard enough to enforce boundaries as it is.

For me it is anyway.

So no. She can go out and look for guys if she wants to.

A minute hasn’t passed before I’m feeling guilty about not taking her call.

I don’t owe this girl anything. I’ve only known her for a week. But we’re both new here, and I sympathize with her desire to get out there and learn about a new town, but not be alone while doing it.

But sometimes you just have to take care of yourself. “And that’s what I intend to do,” I say to no one in particular as I refill my wine and turn on the television. No point in starting my book until I’m sure I won’t be interrupted.

I’m not sure what glass of wine I’m on when the doorbell rings. I hop up from the sofa, grab my wallet from the table by the door and fish out a $20 for the delivery guy.

He smiles, takes the cash and hands over the cardboard box reeking of carbs and cheesy goodness. I make it through three slices and another glass of wine before I fall asleep watching some epic fantasy series. The last thing I remember was the dragon attacking the village folk and Sushi’s tail flicking lazily across the top ledge of the cat tree.

I wake suddenly.

I sit up, putting one hand on the side of my head and the other on the back of the couch to pull myself up. There’s the pizza box, greasy and open on the coffee table. The television plays a commercial for teeth whitening toothpaste.

My heart is pounding, but I’m not sure why. The apartment is dark except for the light of the television, but nothing else seems amiss.

Someone screams.

The hair on the back of my neck rises, and my flesh prickles. Adrenaline floods my limbs.

For a moment, all I can do is sit there, in the dim light of my living room, wondering if maybe someone just saw a spider in the adjacent apartment, or if I’m hearing the television a floor below.

I turn off my own television and listen harder, head c****d, eyes closed.

I sit very still, as if my movement would scare away the noise.

The scream comes again.

It’s a sharp, bone-rattling scream full of unmistakable pain. Whoever she is, she is frightened and hurting and in need of help. I’d wager $100 that it’s coming from the street below.

I go to the balcony and unlock it. Pulling it open, cold air wafts in, and with it, the sound of a woman crying. I was right about it being outside.

I lean over the wrought iron rails of my balcony and scan the streets of Old Town. I search each elevated concrete porch and the shadows pooling around the restored brownstones. My eyes sweep over the cobblestone.

But I don’t see anyone despite the halos of streetlight.

But I hear that crying again. And a short, cut off scream.

Choice 8

Get out there and do something!

I’m not a ninja! Call the police