Miranda
Miranda followed Shadow as he walked down Shattuck then saw him turn on the same side street where she lived, cross the street, and enter the apartment building opposite hers. She didn’t know what to think. Yes, yes she did. This proves it, she thought, he is following me and has been since I first saw him in that café. Well, I’ll show him; I can be a good sleuth too. She kept on walking, away from her building.
She tried to think of the first time she’d seen him. What was his reaction when he saw her there? Was he surprised? Expectant? Angry or happy? No, she remembered, he was just there, his gaze down on his book until she entered and looked up at her. She noticed him because there was something in his look, scrutinizing her maybe, not in a sexual way, but indifferent almost, as if taking her in and assessing her, studying her. And then she remembered him looking back down, scribbling on a piece of paper. Why?
As recollections trickled into her awareness, Miranda walked back to her building, entered, and climbed the forty-five steps to her apartment. She opened the door and, before setting her things down on the entryway table at the entrance as she usually did, Miranda headed straight to the curtains facing the side street and shut them. From her desk, she pulled out paper and a pen and sat down to construct a history of her encounters with Shadow.
But what came to her mind instead was a terror, deep, electric pain traveling through her body, inscrutable pain. All she could do was to make her way to the couch and curl herself up into a ball. She heard a soft cry, as if it came from a kitten. A deep sleep overcame her.
