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  “Where do you live?” Officer Could-Be-On-Steroids asks.

  “I—I, um. I live upstairs,” I say, answering the officer’s question.

  “And you don’t recognize either of these people?” he asks, clipping his radio handset back on his shoulder.

  “Nope.” I frown, shaking my head.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Two years.”

  I answer so quickly I’m almost cutting him off. I’m nervous. I’m coming across as guilty as sin.

  How did Sharon get here so fast? Why is she impersonating a cop? I’m distracting myself. The musclebound cop leans to one side slightly, ensuring we maintain eye contact and keeping me engaged. He looks suspicious.

  “And you’ve never seen either of them?” he asks, probing deeper. “Not even once?”

  “The tinfoil would be a dead giveaway,” I say, trying to make a joke, but he doesn’t laugh. “No. People around here keep to themselves. I work odd hours. Shift work.”

  That’s a lie, and I’m aware I’m making the classic mistake all liars fall for, trying too hard to be convincing. I’m saying too much. My eyes dart around. Everything about my body language screams, “Liar!” I might as well hang a sign around my neck.

  I’m clutching at straws, trying to deny any knowledge of what happened. That I’m roughly the same height as the perpetrator in the photo, carrying the same kind of jacket, wearing the same pants and shoes, all seems lost on the cop, but I’m sweating, just waiting for him to notice.

  “Well,” he says, handing me a business card with the NYPD logo on it, a phone number, and an email address. “If you think of anything, be sure to let me know.”

  “Sure,” I say, trying not to look too eager as I turn away and make for the stairs.

  “Thanks,” Sharon calls out from behind me. I raise a hand in acknowledgement, not turning back.

  Upstairs, I rush inside my apartment, my heart pounding in my chest. After deadbolting the door, I lean against the stiff, wooden panel, expecting it to be kicked in behind me by Officer Schwarzenegger .

  “What the hell am I supposed to do?” I ask no one in particular, half hoping someone answers from the shadows, half hoping they don’t. “Jesus, this is messed up. How the fuck did I get caught up in this madness?”

  I stuff my bloody jacket in a garbage bag, tying it off and shoving that bag inside another plastic garbage bag. I repeat the process again and again, convinced I need to hide the scent, wondering how many times I should do this to avoid the smell of blood being picked up by a police dog. I’ll throw this in the dumpster behind the alley. No, too obvious. Got to be smart. I should burn it. Yeah, because burning garbage in the middle of New York City isn’t going to attract any attention. Shit. I could tie a brick to the bag and dump it in the east river. What the hell is this? The Sopranos? I’m manic. I need to calm down. With no other options, I stuff the garbage bag under my bed. Yeah, they’ll never find it there. And my mind reels with sarcasm and pessimism. I’m totally screwed.

  “Shower and a shave,” I mumble to myself, feeling somewhat hungover. “That’s what I need. Fresh start. Just. Calm. Down. Reboot the day. You’ll be fine.”

  I start the shower, knowing it will take a few minutes to warm, and grab a change of clothes from the bedroom.

  I’m supposed to be at work. What am I going to say? No one’s going to believe this shit. I had a cold. That’s what I’ll say. Yeah, I had a cold for about eight hours, but now I’m fine. Completely believable. Lying has never been this difficult. Okay, I’m late. I’m just late. No reason. No excuse. Sorry. That’ll do, I think, stripping down and jumping into the shower.

  I lather some soap and rub it on my face, looking at the rough stubble in a tiny mirror stuck on the tiled wall with a suction cup. My regrowth is worse than usual. What am I? The wolfman? Working methodically, I run the razor over my cheeks, up under my nose and around my neck. I’m about to tidy up my sideburns when a face appears in the mirror—a face other than mine. I jump, almost slipping in the shower and collapsing to the tiles.

  Hands slip around my naked waist.

  “Sharon?” I cry, spinning around and bumping into the shampoo on the shelf. The plastic bottle crashes to the tiles. There’s no one there. I’m going crazy. That’s it. I am certifiably insane. Brooklyn Mental Hospital—that’s where I need to go. I’ve got to get help. I can’t go on like this, unable to separate my imagination from reality.

  I dry off, get dressed, and head downstairs. The door to Sharon’s apartment is closed. The police tape is gone, and I’m left wondering whether she was ever really there, let alone while playing police officer.

  The air outside is brisk and refreshing, a dose of reality, just what I need.

  A black car races down the street.

  A gun fires.

  I’m standing in the same spot as yesterday.

  Sharon and Mark are there at the bottom of the stairs with their backs to me.

  It’s happening again.

  I cringe, grabbing at the railing and ducking on instinct.

  The car slows at the corner, indicating and waiting patiently for the traffic to clear before turning and merging between a bus and a taxi.

  Mark and Sharon cross the road, only it’s not Mark and Sharon, it’s some other couple wearing similar clothing. Of course they’re wearing similar clothing. It’s winter, stupid. Everyone’s wearing thick jackets, gloves, hats.

  But the gunfire? There wasn’t any gunfire, just a car backfiring, or a door slamming. Everyone else ignored it, I should too, but I can’t. My hands are trembling as I walk down the stairs. I’ve got to get away from here.

  “Keep it together, man,” I whisper, glad to turn my back on the brownstone.

  I take the subway, heading downtown to work.

  Call me paranoid, but I can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched. Several people stare at me. Like every other sane person in New York City, I’m used to weirdos on the subway, but this time it’s me. I’m the crazy, paranoid conspiracy guy everybody’s avoiding. Or am I?

  A young mother with a baby girl in a stroller stares me down, looking at me with unusual interest. Have I got something on my face? A quick peek at my reflection in the glass window opposite me says, “No.” I look away, trying to act relaxed, and then I glance at the glass window further down the car, using it again as a mirror to look indirectly at her. Yep, she’s still staring at me, ignoring her daughter. Creepy.

  There’s an elderly man sitting almost opposite me reading the paper. Each time he turns the page, he folds the paper in such a way that he glances directly at me. He seems particularly uninterested in his paper. Sitting there, I time his page turns. He’s hitting roughly thirty seconds between pages. Apparently, each page contains exactly the same amount of content and nothing holds his interest for more than half a minute.

  My heart rate goes up.

  Am I just being paranoid?

  What are they looking at?

  Did I cut myself shaving?

  Have I got snot hanging from my nose?

  I’ve been so preoccupied by what happened after Mark was shot, it’s not until now that I stop and asked myself the most obvious question of all. Who shot him? And why?

  Normally, I would stay on the train until Grand Central, but the Lexington stop comes along so I decide to test my conspiracy theory. I stand as the train pulls into the station, and walk over toward the door with a bunch of other commuters. Both the creepy mom and the elderly man follow. I catch their reflections in the windows.

  The door opens and I join the mass of people leaving the train, only instead of going up the stairs, I double back, entering the same car through the second door further down the train.

  Elderly creepy guy races to get back on board, following me through the door, while negligent mom reverses her stroller back through the first door and takes a seat again. Okay, so I’m not paranoid. I am being followed.

  The train pulls out of
the station. Fuck it. I’m going to sit down next to the elderly man with the square glasses. Might as well hit this head on.

  Elderly incognito guy pretends to ignore me as I squeeze in beside him. He starts reading his paper, turning to the first page. We’re seated on a side bench the aisle.

  “So,” I ask. “Are you having fun yet? Because I am.”

  “Sorry,” he says, pretending he didn’t catch what I said. He knows damn well exactly what I said. What have I got to lose? Nothing. I haven’t done anything wrong. Well, that might not be entirely true considering Sharon shot at those police officers outside the brownstone and I helped her escape, but I don’t think I have a case to answer before a judge. She’s a psycho—a psycho from another planet—but a psycho nonetheless as far as American law is concerned.

  How does the law apply to someone from another world? I’m guessing it’s the same as for foreigners. Sharon comes from slightly further afield than say, Australia, but the same principle must apply.

  But what would a judge make of my involvement in Mark’s death? Would he take into account his resurrection? I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was a hostage. I have nothing to fear. I hope.

  I grab the man’s newspaper, tearing it from his hands, being sure to make a scene as I crumple it into a ball and throw it into the aisle.

  “Okay, playtime is over,” I say loudly. I have nothing to hide. “No more games. Who the hell are you and why are you following me?”

  Within seconds, several passengers have their cell phones out, pointing them at me and capturing everything on video. Ah, you’ve got to love the modern age. There are people filming the people filming me. Brilliant.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man says.

  “See this,” I say, gesturing to half a dozen complete strangers with their phones out. “This is my insurance policy. They’ve got you on video. Anything happens to me and the police are coming after you. Get it?”

  The train rolls into Grand Central and I get up, saying, “Stop following me. That goes for you too crazy lady with the kid. Just don’t. Stay on the goddamn train or else.”

  Or else? Really, that’s the best you can come up with? What kind of threat is that? Yeah, well I’m not exactly pulling out witty one liners like Arnold in The Terminator—or else will have to do.

  The doors open and I step onto the platform.

  As the train pulls out of the station, I wave at both the old man and the young mom. She’s talking on a phone. The scowl on her face is priceless. Several of the other commuters are still filming, catching a shot of me on the platform, which is fine by me.

  I jog up the stairs feeling quite pleased with myself.

  There’s a Starbucks just outside the station, so I duck inside and stand in line. I’m not actually thirsty. I want to keep my eye on the station exit and pick out anyone else that might be following. A second cup of coffee on an empty stomach is probably not the smartest idea I’ve ever had, and it’s bound to make me more jittery, and probably even more paranoid, but I want to be sure there’s no one else stalking me.

  Within a minute, I’m standing at the counter, about to place an order, when a teenaged boy with bad acne hands me a cup with my name written on it, saying, “Joe Connors? Latte, right?”

  “Ah, yeah. Thanks,” I say, slowly moving out of the line, unsure what’s going on. The clock on the wall reads 10:42. I’m over two hours late for work. My boss is an asshole at the best of times, so I head into Bloomfells, ducking in through the loading dock, hoping I haven’t been missed.

  “Connors!” my boss yells as I step out onto the floor. All heads within the department store turn, customers and staff alike, and I cringe, wishing I could disappear. Sheepishly, I walk over to him, trying to think of a plausible lie.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he asks with his hands on his hips.

  “To the Moon and back,” I offer, not that telling the truth is going to help, but I’m hoping a bit of humor will.

  “Three days! You don’t show up for work for three days, and you have the gall to sneak back in here and pretend nothing’s wrong? What? You can’t even pick up a goddamn phone and call in sick?”

  Three days? I’m as shocked as he is.

  “You’re fired. Get out of my store.”

  I’m speechless. Stunned.

  “Are you deaf?” he yells. “Go.”

  “But Julian—”

  “Out!”

  Hamid over in computers cringes. Our eyes meet and I get the sense he’s born the brunt of Julian’s wrath over the past few days. He shakes his head, signaling for me not to take things further. He’s right. Julian’s like a bull charging at a red flag. I back away, trying to be dignified when I feel horribly embarrassed. The whole world stares.

  “I’ll—I’ll get my stuff later.”

  Julian doesn’t say anything. He just glares, and I wonder if my locker has already been emptied into the trash. I want to call him an asshole. I want to make a scene and yell at him, to vent, to lash out in anger, but two hotheads are only going to make matters worse. There’s nothing to be gained. To scream and carry on like a petulant child would only justify his position. My lips quiver. I’ve never been reduced to crying in public, but my pride has been hurt, and I struggle to keep tears from rolling down my cheeks.

  “Sorry, man,” Hamid says softly as I walk past. I acknowledge him with a wave of my hand, unable to say anything. “I’ll be in touch. We’ll catch a Knicks game or something.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I manage, choking up, but not at anything he said. I’ll probably never see Hamid again. Best of intentions aside, all we have in common is work. At most, we’ll bump into each other in the subway in a few months time, remember our awkward pledge of enduring friendship, and then disappear back into the bustling crowd again.

  I feel crushed. I raise my disposable coffee cup as though I’m offering him a toast. Truth is, I can’t get out of this shitty store fast enough.

  “Take care, dude,” he calls out after me.

  Walking outside, I want to explode. I want to punch someone. I want to crush the fragile paper cup in my hand, but the coffee would go everywhere. Ah, Joe, you’re ever the pragmatist.

  Life ignores me.

  People brush past on the sidewalk.

  Cars drive by, splashing the icy sludge into the gutter.

  A dog sniffs my feet as his owner walks briskly along the pavement, dragging his curious miniature poodle on with him.

  “Well,” I say to myself, trying to feel better with a little humor. “That couldn’t have gone any better.”

  Sigh.

  The name written on my cup has been scrawled on a sleeve of recycled paper acting as insulation. As the drink has cooled, I slip it off, wondering who ordered the drink for me. Written on the inside is a note: Call in sick. Don’t let Julian c u.

  Good advice. A little late, but good.

  I’m wondering if it was Hamid or someone else, when a familiar voice says, “How’s your day going?”

  Sharon walks up from behind me, sliding her hand inside the crook of my arm and taking hold of my jacket. We walk away from Bloomfells. Dark clouds blot out the sun. As bizarre as my day has been, there’s something comforting and reassuring about being with Sharon. Against all reason, I feel relaxed around her. She sets the turbulent seas within my heart strangely at ease.

  “Did you get my message?” she asks, and I hold up the sleeve before tossing it in a nearby trashcan.

  “Oh,” she says, realizing I got it a bit late. “Don’t worry. He’s a dick.”

  “He is,” I say, feeling a bit more cheery with Sharon hanging off my arm. Suddenly, the cold doesn’t feel quite so bitter.

  “Did he fire you?”

  “Yep,” I say. “He sure did.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Ah,” I say, sipping at the latte. “I hated that job anyway.”

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “Probably for the be
st.”

  “Sure. Who needs to pay rent anyway?”

  “Yeah,” she replies, squeezing my arm and taking my comment way too literally.

  “What about you?” I ask, looking at her dressed in tight jeans and a fluffy, down-filled jacket. “No more sexy police cosplay?”

  She laughs, but doesn’t reply with anything more than an uninformative, “Nah.”

  A couple of cops stand on the street corner, more interested in talking with each other than stopping crime, or wannabe terrorists, or whatever. Can’t say I blame them.

  “I need your help.”

  Oh, there it is.

  “Help?” I ask, feeling I have a right to qualify her intent before agreeing to anything. “This doesn’t involve tinfoil or duct tape, does it?”

  “No. Silly.”

  “Or trips to a psychiatric hospital? Because, right about now, I could do with lying on a couch and talking to a shrink.”

  “Noooo,” Sharon says, smiling as she snuggles into my arm. “You’re so funny.”

  “Funny is good,” I say, relaxing. What is it with me and crazy women?

  “I like what you did back there on the train,” she says.

  “You saw that?”

  “Very clever.”

  I smile. Suddenly, life is rosy again, and I’m content. Jobless, but with a gorgeous woman hanging off my arm, I don’t know if life could be any better.

  Without any warning, Sharon pushes me briskly into one of the cops standing on the street corner. My shoulder connects with his and he tumbles forward off the curb, skating for a second on the ice before crashing backwards on his ass in the snow. The officer ends up lying in the gutter covered in slush.

  “What the hell?” the other cop says, already reaching for his gun. Before he can draw his 9mm Glock out of its holster, Sharon slaps him across the cheek.

  “Police brutality!” she yells, pushing the cop. He staggers backwards, bumping into a trash can. Already, several bystanders have their phones out, holding them up and capturing the incident on video.

  “I have the right to free speech,” Sharon cries, facing one of the pedestrians with his cell phone recording the incident.