Someone Is Watching Read Online Free PDF Page B

anyone to hide beneath it, then proceed down the long marble hallway, flanked on both sides by the paintings I inherited from my parents—a series of colorful hearts by Jim Dine, a Motherwell nude, an abstract pink-and-black Gottlieb, an orange-and-black Calder that looks kind of like a turkey. I do a quick search of the second bedroom that serves as my office, peeking under the Lucite-and-black-marble desk on which sits my computer and behind the purple corduroy pullout sofa where Heath sometimes sleeps. I peer into its small closet and ensuite bathroom, checking the tiny cabinet under the sink, before continuing down the hall to the main powder room. After ascertaining that no one is crouching behind the door, I move to the hall closet and look for feet hiding beneath the rack of coats. I make sure the lock on the front door is secure, then check the kitchen on my way to the living and dining area.
    Two modern white sofas curve toward one another in the middle of the rectangular room, a large, square limestone coffee table between them on top of a free-form cowhide area rug. Bright purple accent pillows adorn the sofas. They match the purple velvetarmchair that sits in the invisible dividing line between the living and dining areas. Ten plastic lemons fill an oblong wire bowl in the middle of the glass dining room table. A dozen pink silk roses stand tall in a lime-green vase on the serving table against the wall opposite the window, underneath a painting of two faceless women strolling hand in hand along a deserted beach. I don’t remember who painted it. A local artist, I believe.
    A fake palm tree beside the window stretches toward the room’s high ceiling, the tree as authentic-looking as any of the ubiquitous palms that line the streets below. Artificial white orchids hang from a wall sconce next to the door to the kitchen. Everyone always assumes that the orchids are real, congratulate me on my green thumb. They look shocked when I tell them they’re fake, even more shocked when I confess I prefer these imposters to the real thing. They’re easy and undemanding, I explain. You don’t have to take care of them. They don’t die.
    Of course, I have real flowers as well. In the days immediately following my rape, I received at least six different arrangements. They’re mostly from my colleagues at work and are scattered throughout the apartment. Sean Holden sent two dozen pink roses. Travis sent a large pot of purple mums. He remembered that I love purple but forgot that I hate mums. Maybe he did it on purpose, or maybe I just never told him.
    After I am positive that no one is hiding behind the decorative panels of the living room curtains waiting to jump out at me, I return to my bedroom, where I rifle through the clothes hanging inside my walk-in closet, making sure that no one is secreted behind my jeans and dresses. I inspect the master bathroom: the separate toilet stall, the glass-enclosed shower, even the white enamel bathtub with its brass claw feet, in case someone is coiled inside, like a snake in a basket, waiting to strike. I do the same with the white wicker hamper that sits beside the tub, removing its lid and poking through its contents with my scissors.
    I perform this ritual at least three times a day, although occasionally I vary the order. Only when I am fully convinced that noone has been able to infiltrate my glass sanctuary in the sky do I turn on the shower. As steam fills the room, I remove my pajamas and step inside the stall.
    I take the scissors with me.
    I don’t so much as glance at my nude body. I can’t bear the sight of my breasts. My pubic hair repulses me. I haven’t shaved my legs or underarms since the attack. Everything hurts: my ribs, my wrists, my back. Even my skin. I remain under the steady onslaught of hot water until I can no longer feel my flesh. I don’t look in the steam-coated mirror when I get out. I use a harsh towel to dry myself off, then I rub myself raw. I