Along Came a Spider

Saturday, 6:30 pm

Tabitha's eyes kept dancing to and from the windows as she worked, her fingers catching and winding lengths of thick crimson yarn. The metal needles rasped when they scraped together. Outside, the world had turned gold and violet with the fading twilight.

The night before became a blur sometime after one in the morning, when the movie had finally run its course. She remembered curling up on the couch across from James—still warm and sluggish from sex and all the rampaging endorphins it had set loose in her system—and fighting to keep her eyes open even during the chaos of the movie's climax. Then there was a brief period of blankness, interrupted only by the sound of her doorknob rattling before she slipped back into delirium. She woke up several hours later alone on her couch with a blanket draped over her body and dawn streaming into her apartment, illuminating her carpet in tall rectangles where it came in through her windows.

For the first time in over a week, Tabitha was able to enjoy her day off.

She almost hadn't known what to do with herself. She threw on some sweatpants and prepared herself for the weekly cleansing of her apartment after her shower, but remembered as she went to retrieve her cleaning supplies from her closet that the entire place had been scoured within an inch of its life the day before. So she busied herself with plowing through another one of her older books instead, and after a rather late lunch, she pulled out her knitting needles and zoned out on a few nature documentaries on her couch, her fingers working with the deftness of well-sustained muscle memory. Three hours and three feet later, she was ready to finish.

As she bound off the bulky edges of her knitting, her attention strayed to the book on her coffee table.

The Scarlet Letter.

She remembered buying a paperback copy for her high school English class and, even after the semester had ended, reading it again and again until it fell to pieces in her hands. She might even still have it, she thought—probably bound up in scotch tape and stuffed in a box in her closet.

She picked up the ancient red book and opened it carefully, relishing the weight of it in her hands. It was dripping with the smell of old, well-loved paper and dust, and the soft creaking noise the cover made as it spilled open in her lap made her feel like Indiana Jones prying open some long-forgotten box. She skimmed her fingers over the paper, marveling the old, spaced-out type and the flowery decorations that filled the first pages, and the pad of her index finger came to a stop at a line of handwriting, long and looping and painstakingly deliberate:

Marie Belanger, 1934

And below that, in a messier scrawl:

James Nevin, 1955

Tabitha's brow wrinkled with her squint.

There came a whining creak coming from somewhere beyond her bedroom, followed by a series of heavy footsteps, and she tore her eyes from the cover page to stare down her hallway. She hadn't heard much from James's apartment all day. Maybe he was getting ready for work.

She shut the book and placed it back onto her coffee table, summoning up the courage to make that nerve-wracking five-foot trek to the apartment next door. She'd already seen him twice this week, but that didn't make her any less nervous about seeing him again. It wasn't a particularly

terrible

sort of nervousness, not anymore, but all that giddiness and warped excitement was keeping her a hair's breadth away from planting her feet firmly into the carpet and screaming. Humans weren't supposed to feet this many things at once, she thought glumly as she rose to her feet and snatched up the scarf. It had to be unhealthy.

The bathroom light was on, and the trip inside to turn it off quickly became a quest to fix her hair in the mirror...followed by her makeup, and then smoothing out the wrinkles in her shirt. After several minutes, she finally yanked herself out of the mirror's clutches, feeling ridiculous. She had to hurry if she wanted to catch James before he left for work.

She exited the bathroom and flipped the light switch behind her, but just after she turned to make her way to the front door, she spun back around with a gasp.

The hallway was dim and still in front of her, and she put a hand to her chest to steady her pounding heartbeat. For just a sliver of a moment, she could have sworn she saw a very humanoid silhouette standing just outside of her bedroom; a brief flicker of thin limbs and long, raggedy hair lurking in her peripheral vision.

Her vacuum sat innocently in the corner next to her hall closet, casting a long shadow on her wall from the light of her living room, and she glowered at it as she knelt to slip on her boots.

James answered his door wearing a vacant expression, but it melted into one of his little smiles when their eyes met. "Tabitha."

"Hi," said Tabitha. She tried to keep the concern from entering her voice. James's usual pallor seemed accentuated somehow, and his eyes were surrounded by circles like soft bruises. They made his dark eyes seem even darker, larger, like two oil spills in his face. He looked so...tired. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but...are you feeling alright? You look exhausted."

"Haven't been sleeping well. It'll pass." He scratched the nape of his neck and blinked slowly, looking all for the world like a man who had tried and failed to sleep off a bender the night before. "Want to come in?"

"Oh, that's okay," Tabitha said quickly. "I just came by to drop something off. You have work, right?"

"Not tonight." He opened the door a little wider. "I've got a couple beers we can split, if you want."

She slipped past him, and as he shut the door behind her, she observed her surroundings with a little worry. His usually neat apartment seemed messier today. A few dirty glasses were stacked alongside six empty beer bottles, a dish towel was on the floor, and the throw blanket that was normally folded over the couch was lying in a lumpy heap on the carpet. His television was on and displaying a blank, bright blue screen.

"Sorry for the mess," he said from behind her, and she chided herself. Her scrutiny must have been incredibly obvious.

"I don't mind," she said quickly.

He leaned his elbows on the counter and smiled at her. "Yes you do. How did you know I was home?"

"I heard you moving around and thought I'd come say hello before you left for the night," Tabitha admitted. Then she met his eye and winced. "That's...that's not creepy, is it?"

"So you

were

lying that night, when you said you couldn't hear me," he said. To her relief, however, the idea only seemed to amuse him.

"I was trying to be polite but...yes. You used to wake me up. I'm pretty immune to your early-morning tintinnabulation now, though."

"I'll try to keep the tintinnabulating to a minimum from now on."

She grinned. "That would be sweet of you."

His eyes dropped to examine the bag in her hands. "What's that?"

"Oh...right." She placed the bag on the counter and pulled out the long, red, bulky length of knitted yarn. She offered it to him, and he took it from her with a curious look. "I, um...made you a scarf," she mumbled, looking down at the counter.

When she finally dared to look back up at him, his lips had split into a wide, utterly delighted grin. "You made me a scarf," he repeated, unfolding it to inspect it. "How long did it take you?"

"Only a couple days. Big yarn knits fast," Tabitha told the countertop. "I just thought that since you walk everywhere, it would help you stay warm." Across the counter, James was winding the scarf around his neck.

"I like it. Thank you," he said. She watched him turn to the fridge. "Do you have any plans tonight?" he asked as he withdrew a pair of frosty brown bottles.

"Not really," said Tabitha. He dug through a nearby drawer and pulled out a bottle opener, then wrenched off a bottle lid with a

hiss.

She caught it as he slid it towards her on the countertop. "I've just been lazy all day."

"I'm not going anywhere tonight. You could be lazy here...unless you're getting sick of me." He cracked open the other bottle and took a long sip.

She smiled around the lip of her bottle. "Not yet. But if you need sleep—"

"I'll live." He took another swig—a much longer one this time, like he was only seconds from death and the beer was his only elixir. "Movie?" he offered, surfacing from the bottle and dragging his wrist over his lips.

Tabitha's gaze darted around his apartment. "I don't suppose there's much else to do, is there?" she admitted, and she thought she saw his expression falter, if only for a moment.

"We could go to dinner, if you wanted," he said. Tabitha quickly shook her head.

"That's alright—I ate a few hours ago. We really don't have to if you don't want to," she said. As she spoke, he seemed to droop with relief, but then, just as suddenly, he lifted his head to give her a strange look.

"...Why wouldn't I want to?" he asked, and Tabitha stared at him. His voice was slow, careful, like he thought she might have caught him red-handed but wasn't quite sure yet. It was the sort of voice a man would use around an overbearing girlfriend who had a habit of poring over his browser history.

"I just...I don't want you to think you have to take me to dinner all the time. I don't mind staying in," she said, inclining her head to sip at her beer and hide her face. She could still feel James watching her, perfectly silent.

"You don't have to worry about that. I like taking you to dinner," he said softly, and she could have died from relief hearing him speak. Still, when she looked at him, there was a trace of suspicion left in his eyes. "But you're right. I think I would rather stay in tonight."

Tabitha smiled weakly. "I wasn't really feeling up to walking anywhere, anyway." God,

really?

What was wrong with her? Red stuff on his face; the incident after the pho; the way his eyes lit up, black and intensely bright, when he touched her; and now he was looking at her like a man with a body hidden somewhere when she told him they didn't have to go to dinner, and she was so quick to drop the whole subject. Wasn't the least bit curious about it.

No, Tabitha realized; it wasn't that she wasn't curious. She genuinely didn't want to know. And what kind of person did that make her, exactly? Did serial killers have friends like that, who always had a

feeling

something wasn't quite right but never did anything about it?

"Then come lie on the couch with me," he said, rousing her from her thoughts, and she followed him obediently to that red leather sofa. He sank onto the couch, but before she could sit next to him, he had tugged her onto his lap so she was sitting bestride his legs. He reclined into the cushions after that and let his eyes roam over her, like he was admiring his handiwork, and she quirked her lips.

"I think we both have very different ideas of what it means to lie on a couch," she told him, and he laughed.

"I hope you don't mind."

She grinned. "This is fine."

"What were you thinking about?"

"...I'm sorry?" she asked. He sat up a little, almost eagerly.

"You make a face when you're thinking about something," he said, and she felt herself turn pink. "You made it a few minutes ago."

"Is it...is it a bad face?" she stammered, and he laughed.

"No, it's a perfectly fine face." He propped his chin up on the heel of his hand, his eyes never straying from her face. It wasn't a bad sort of scrutiny, but it was scrutiny all the same, and the intensity of his gaze was making her uneasy. "I just wondered what might have brought it about."

"Maybe it isn't any of your business," she said swiftly.

"Is it?"

Tabitha thought about that for a minute, and upon finding that she couldn't come up with an excuse, simply shook her head. James cocked his head to the side.

"And I thought we could tell each other everything," he said, an unidentifiable note to his voice. It might have been sarcasm, but Tabitha couldn't tell. She was too busy stewing over how unfair it was that he expected her to bare her soul when he left so much of himself unexplained; an objection she was certain she could never voice out loud.

"Maybe not

everything,"

she said instead, pulling playfully at that red scarf around his neck, tugging him closer. He obliged, looking surprised. "We only just met. I don't want to ruin the mystique," she explained. His lips curved into an odd little smile.

"You're an enigma, Miss Tabitha," he said, and she frowned at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Just when I think I have you pinned down, you throw me for another loop." His hands touched the small of her back, drawing her into him. "I don't think I can figure you out, either."

"Then we're even," Tabitha dared to say, and he shook his head before pulling her down to kiss her. It was a strange kiss—a good one, certainly, but curious, like the two of them were trying to taste the truth in each other's mouths. Or maybe, she thought as he sifted his fingers through her hair, it wasn't like that at all.

His other hand slowly squeezed the back of her thigh and she felt her heart wrench painfully in her chest. Maybe he just wanted to shut her up.

The moment that thought entered her brain, a shrill jingle rang out in the silence of James's living room and his right pocket began to buzz. The pair of them jumped.

Tabitha quickly lifted one of her legs to step off of his lap. "Sorry—I can—"

"Don't you dare," he said, jerking her back down. He caged her there with one arm and fished around for his cellphone with the other hand, keeping her pinned against his chest as he lifted it to his ear. When he spoke, his voice was husky. "Hello?"

He paused as the other person unleashed a volley of staticky words, none of them comprehensible to Tabitha, who had begun to fidget restlessly in his arms. She saw him frown.

"Now?

Really?" James said, and the voice fired back something that sounded like an accusation. "Plenty," he answered grimly. The voice let loose another stream of words, fast and likely very impolite, and James relented with a sigh. "Fine. I'll be there in an hour." He hung up as the voice began to speak again and pulled back to give Tabitha an apologetic look. "My boss," he said. "I have to go in for a while."

Tabitha tried to hide her disappointment. "I understand."

"I won't be there long. I just have to—"

"No, it's fine. Really."

He looked hard at the couch cushions for a few seconds, lost in silent contemplation, and when he looked back up at her his face had lit up with realization. "You could come with me," he said.

Tabitha squinted at him. "Wha—wait. Won't they mind?"

"The place is a graveyard this late. There's hardly anyone around, and the people who

are

there aren't going to give a damn." He leaned against the head of the sofa and grinned. "I offered to show you around once and you said you'd be interested. Did you mean it?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"Then come with me. It'll be an adventure." He lifted his eyebrows. "Unless you're too tired."

Hesitantly, she nodded. "Okay. If you're sure it isn't a problem." He kissed her cheek and tapped her thigh, a gentle signal that she should stand, and she squirmed off of his lap. Silently, she watched him pocket his cell phone—an archaic piece of technology, silver and oval-shaped with a flip screen—and swirled the words around in her mouth before she spoke them out loud. "Do

I

get to have your phone number?" she finally asked, almost challengingly, and as he rose to his feet his eyes made a slow, pointed trek toward the far wall on his right; the paper-thin divider between his apartment and hers.

"Do you really need it?" he asked wryly.

"You're not always home," she pointed out as she tugged the hem of her dress back down to her knees. "What if I want to talk to you then?"

He shouldered his way into his jacket and zipped it up. Even then, it still hung loosely over his frame. She wondered if he had just bought it that way, or if it had once belonged to someone...else. "Alright," he said, dragging her back to the present. "But only if you give me yours."

She gave him a coy smile and shrugged her purse strap over her shoulder. "That sounds fair."

The walk to the bus stop was short and strangely quiet. James seemed a far cry from the bright-spirited man that had walked her to dinner all those nights ago, politely engaging and occasionally bristling with cryptic banter. The lights overhead threw shadows over his face while they walked, making him look even more tired than he did already. Still, when he caught her eye, he offered her a wan smile that she couldn't help but return.

The bus rolled up when they were within ten feet of the bench and both of them broke into a light jog to catch it. When they collapsed into their seats, however, Tabitha looked up at the head of the bus with a start.

"Wait—this is

my

bus," she said, studying the bus line number blazing on the LED screen above the driver—an ancient-looking man in a plaid jacket. He removed the keys from the ignition as she spoke and moseyed off of the bus, stretching as he made his way outside. "You take this line to work? I can't believe I haven't seen you on it before." James chuckled.

"I don't think our daily routines have a lot of overlap."

"I guess you're right. I forgot that I'm the only one of us with a

normal

sleep schedule," Tabitha said, setting down her purse and searching its depths for her cellphone.

He snorted at that. "Normal."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"So did you." She rolled her eyes in reluctant acceptance. "To tell the truth, you're missing out. Plenty of interesting things happen in the wee hours of the morning."

She shook her head as she unearthed her phone. "I don't believe you."

"There's the milkman, for instance," James continued as if she hadn't spoken. "I got off work late a few times and saw him making his runs to the houses near our building. It sounds mundane, but you should see the way he

moves.

He sprints to every doorstep carrying his deliveries. It's unreal. And everyone on the buses is either drunk or up to something." He was staring out of the window now, his dark eyes glazing over. "I saw a man break into a liquor store once. I don't think he even took any money. He came out with this duffel bag crammed full of bottles, practically dragged it to the bus stop. Top-shelf stuff, probably."

Tabitha gaped at him. "Did you call the police?"

"No. I was having too much fun watching him. He looked so smug, gloating over his new hoard. I could tell it wasn't his first time." He smiled. "The alarm tipped the authorities off, but they arrived right after we pulled out of the station. You could see the lights from the back of the bus. Before he got off at his stop, he gave me a bottle of scotch. It tasted expensive. I think I still have the cork somewhere."

"You're completely insane," Tabitha told him, that sentence punctured by a breath of baffled laughter. "What if he got caught? You would have gotten in trouble, too." He waved away her protests with a flick of his wrist.

"But the best part, the very best part," he went on, "is this little period between three and five a.m in the wintertime. Everything stops. There aren't any cars on the streets, the buses and trains aren't running, and it feels like there isn't a single soul alive but you. Like the world went and ended overnight." The smile was slack on his face now. He looked almost wistful. "It's so quiet. It's perfect. And then at five o'clock, a few cars start, doors open and shut, the birds start to sing, and you get to listen to the world start all over again."