Work is unbearably ordinary. I want to tell my coworkers that I watched a man jump off my roof the night before. I want to announce that I’m being framed for a jewelry caper and I’m a willing participant due to the villain’s devastating good looks.

My story is at the tip of my tongue so I keep my smile tight and quiet as I pull my curls into a tiny bun at the top of my head and pin the escapee ringlets. I keep my eyes down as I tie my apron strings in a bow at the front of my waist, afraid my story might escape if I make too much eye contact.

My coworker Julia notices my mood right away. She hip-bumps me as we prep coffee service.

“So quiet. So mysterious. Someone’s got something hidden up her sleeve. Or maybe there are some hickeys under that collar?” she smiles at me, lifting her eyebrows up and down.

My jaw drops in feigned shock, “I believe that kind of talk is against workplace regulations. Plus, you know I’ve been living under a vow of chastity since living at Mossie’s.”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware that heavy petting counted against your nun-like principles.”

“I wouldn’t call my lifestyle principled, I’d call it awkward, lazy, and accidental. And your pervy intuition is wrong this time. I’m pure as the driven snow. Now excuse me, I see a lady in your section looking around for a Mimosa refill,” I answer, feeling a blush rise up my neck and into my cheeks.

“She’s a lush and you’re a ninja at snoop evasion. I’ll get to you once the aprons are off, mark my words.”

Six hours later, Julia is stuck on recycling duty and I clock out as soon as I’m done mopping the kitchen. I hang my apron on a hook in the kitchen and escape out the back without my usual goodbyes. I step out into the last of the daylight. I embrace a little normalcy and stop for peanut butter and Saltines before heading back home.

In deciding between the half-an-hour walk back to Mossie’s and the crowded rush hour subway, I wiggle my toes and feel the ache in my feet. I have a sudden, desperate desire to sit down. The hope of a seat and that the crush of the crowd quiets my busy brain and drives me to catch the 7 from Grand Central station.

Whenever I enter the high-domed main room, I feel my midwestern soul stir and have the urge to clutch a straw hat to my head to gawk at the ceiling like a backwoods tourist. With no straw hat to clutch, I keep my head down and my pace quick, aiming to get a seat in the five-o’clock throng.

Ten minutes later, I’m feeling strangely blessed even though a lady’s greasy handbag keeps bumping into my temple and some dude’s leg is straying into my bubble. I take in the crowd and let them distract me from the golden bracelet conspiracy.

The city is normal. I check my phone. No news about bracelet heists or women being lured into human trafficking via convoluted tricks involving a man jumping off a roof.

I tap my foot, suddenly impatient to get home. Looking down the train, my throat catches in surprise.

There, in the next car is the man from the roof. Or the man from The Met. Now, the man from the subway. His stalking pattern is becoming predictable. My jaw clenches. I’m annoyed.I feel my pulse start to race and my throat tighten. What does he want? How did he find me?

I make eye contact with him across the crowded train. He’s glowering as well. I toss my head and give him a “what’s your damn problem” shrug. He gestures back, showing me his wrist and pointing to it.

What a d*ck, thinking I’m going to wear that thing no questions asked. I’ll just walk into his cave of lies and roll myself up in his web. I raise my eyebrows and mouth, “Wow,” before pointedly looking at the map over the double doors even though I know exactly where I am.

Our first fight. It might’ve taken place without any actual words spoken but I’m shaking with anger by the time I get to my stop. The things this fool doesn’t understand actually astound me.

It doesn’t take long for him to catch up to me when I leave the subway. He grabs my wrist from behind as I climb the stairs, his cool, soft skin making mine feel hot and rough. Something in me snaps and my habitual practice of self-preservation finally resurfaces, giving me a whole new perspective on this scenario. I turn around, glad that the stairs put me a head above him.

“Back the f*ck off, you creep,” I yell, hoping to shame him in the crowd. “I don’t know what the f*ck your deal is but I don’t recall giving you permission to f*cking touch me.”

His hand shoots back as if burnt. His eyes are hurt and shocked but I don’t care. My schoolgirl crush feels have been replaced by an iron-clad anger that I’ve cultivated in the years I’ve fended for myself. A portion of the rush hour crowd turns to witness the commotion. A woman in overalls has stopped and is standing next to me now.

“You need to leave, now,” she’s saying with her hands up, putting a foot between the man and me. “Leave her the f*ck alone.” People are slowly gathering, closing in on half a dozen but still, he’s standing there taking the grief they’re all hurling his way.

“Petra, listen,” he’s standing stock still in the chaos. “You need to listen. Your life is in danger. If I explain, you’ll never believe me. But wear the bracelet for now. Now that you’ve touched it, you need to wear it.”

“I heard you the first time, dude. But I don’t know you. I don’t even know how you know my name. If I see you creeping around me again, I’m calling the f*cking cops.”

“Just take this,” he hisses, pushing something slim and hard into my hand. Take this and maybe you’ll get some answers. I won’t contact you again. Not until you call for me.”

At that moment, a man who looks like a gentle professor takes the man from The Met, the man from my rooftop, by the front of his shirt and pulls him down two steps, away from me.

The glimpse I get of him as he stumbles with the professor on the steps frightens me. A golden hue takes over his brown eyes and there’s something very close to murder in his boyish face. The professor sees the man’s eyes too and steps back, stiff-legged with sudden fear.

If this man is claiming that my life is in danger, maybe I should listen. Maybe he’s the one holding my life in his hands.

I’m shaking as I walk home, checking behind me and wishing I wasn’t going home to an empty apartment. It’s not until I’m safe inside the locked door of the sturdy brownstone that the object the man pushed into my hands on the subway steps is digging into the skin of my hand in a death grip. I slump down on a kitchen stool at the bar and open my hand.

A white key card labeled ‘The Metropolitan Museum of Art’ sits in my palm. Underneath the bold letters in smaller letters ‘Scientific Research Labs A:5-A:15’ has been added with a permanent marker.

My heart is making loops in my chest. This could be the next step in setting me up in some convoluted plot. Before I can return to my fear and anger, the desperate expression on the man’s face as he pressed the card into my hand swims to the forefront of my mind.

I remember his brown eyes, creased with concern and care. I picture his square shoulders and wide hands gesturing toward me, not backing down despite the crowd on the steps turning against him. That was not the expression of a con man. That was the expression of a man who cared about me, even if he was strange and unhinged.

Even if he might be capable of great harm.

The next day was a day off. I could stay indoors, pacing the empty apartment, wondering when I’d see the man again. And eventually, despite the anger and fear still roiling in tense coils up my shoulders and deep in my belly, I know I’d want to see him again. Pining over a dangerous stalker sounds like the last thing I needed to indulge in.

As the evening passes, I study the card in my hand. Whatever plot might be in play, I’m already involved. There’s no going back. If there’s something I can do to get answers, I need to take those steps. Tomorrow, I’m going on a little field trip to the research labs in the heart of The Met.