Stay With Me

Detective Joe Bruno’s ice-chip eyes meet mine as I step from Mott onto Bayard. He’s standing in front of my building, dressed for a funeral—black suit, dove gray shirt, gleaming Oxfords. The loosened knot of his blue-and-gray tie undermines the otherwise polished look.

“Ms. Schaefer.” His baritone voice parts the dense, urban air. “If I’d known you were walking home, I would have offered you a ride.”

Bruno says it in a playful way, but every nerve in my body clangs in warning. I jerk to a stop and suck in a breath.

“It’s a nice day for a walk, Detective.” My smile shimmies into place. “Maybe you should take one.”

One dark eyebrow lifts, disrupting the perfect symmetry of Bruno’s face.

“Why did you go to Szymanski’s funeral?” he says, his voice heavy with concern. “We told you to stay away for your own safety. Plus, you said you didn’t know him.”

“I want closure,” I tell Bruno, “and I’m not getting it from you.”

Michael Szymanski died in my arms two weeks ago. I was walking home alone from a party, cocooned in self-pity because the guy I was into had left with someone else. Szymanski stumbled into my path, covered in blood, and lurched into me. A car roared out of an adjacent alley and careened down the street. I cradled Szymanski’s head as I dialed 9-1-1. His dark eyes bored into mine to the last.

I hoped my pilgrimage to the Church of the Most Precious Blood would put Syzmanski’s ghost to rest. I should have known better. Halfway through the funeral, I felt a familiar urge coming on. And now one of the city’s finest is on my doorstep, counting the beads of sweat on my forehead.

“Where’s your partner?” I ask, smoothing the skirt of the only black dress I own.

Bruno leans against the building’s brick facade, arms crossed over his chest. “We agreed it would be best if I came to talk to you. Alone.”

“What about?” My spine straightens. “Haven’t we already been over it all a million times?”

Despite his gruff demeanor, Bruno’s the good cop. His partner, Detective Matt Wright, snaps and barks during interrogation—a blond pit bull in a blazer. Wright is always moving, pacing, eager to put me on edge. Bruno is patient and deliberate with his questions. I reckon his silent stare can be as persuasive as the Glock I’ve seen in his holster.

Different styles aside, they both think I’m holding something back. They’re not wrong, but they don’t need to know about my macabre muse. Not when Bruno is already worried about my inability to avoid the funeral.

“Why don’t we take our conversation inside?” He tilts his head toward the door.

I tug at a loose button on my dress. Did I leave the sketch out or tuck it away with the others?

Bruno doesn’t miss my hesitation.

“Is there something up there you don’t want me to see, Ms. Schaefer?” he says, playful again, one corner of his mouth edging higher than the other. He’s probably thinking my stockings are hanging out to dry on a curtain rod.

I glare at him for a beat, then stroll past him to the entrance. So what if he sees my sketch? He might think I’m crazy—too crazy to be a reliable witness. Then maybe he’ll finally let up on me.

I yank open the outer door and step into the tiny vestibule, littered with fliers and boxes. Bruno peels his six-foot-two frame away from the facade and sweeps in behind me. I tap in the code for the security door with flapping fingers, my other hand shielding the keypad. The detective chuckles at my caution and follows me into the lobby.

I bend over to slip off my three-inch heels. They dangle from my left hand as I pad across the graying carpet to the stairs. The elevator has been out of order since I moved in three months ago, so we climb to the fourth floor. Heart pounding, I fish the key ring out of my handbag. Deadbolt, then knob, and the door to my apartment swings wide.

Rays of midday light dart into my eyes from a curtainless window. The space is small even by New York City standards, with an ancient leather armchair, a spindle-legged side table, and a daybed practically elbowing each other in the main living area. A chipped pedestal table I liberated from Goodwill holds court in the kitchenette, attended by two folding chairs. I’m too edgy to worry about the daybed’s rumpled state or the empty wine bottle and tumbler on the side table.

Bruno shuts the door and wastes no time.

“What if the perp was at the funeral?” Frustration bleeds through each word. “What if he recognized you? Followed you home?”

I weigh this possibility for a fraction of a second. “If the perp did recognize me, Detective, why am I still here?”

“Probably didn’t want to kill you in public.” His brow, visible thanks to his slicked-back hair, creases. “Maybe he’s watching, biding his time.”

I toss my shoes on the floor beside the daybed and turn my back to him so he won’t see the liquid fear in my eyes. It’s not enough that I’m haunted. Now I have to worry about being hunted.

“We have no leads, Ms. Schaefer,” Bruno says. “This guy was smart. He knew where the security cameras were. You’re the only one who saw anything. Whether this case proceeds depends on you.”

The weight of that simple sentence presses down on me. Bruno and Wright keep circling back as if I’ll remember something once the trauma of watching a man die has eased. But I don’t remember the make and model of the getaway car. I don’t recall what the driver looked like apart from Caucasian male. And the dying man left me nothing except the crushing guilt that comes with being a lousy witness.

“What’s this?” Bruno asks.

I pivot as he picks up the sketch from the wooden table in the kitchenette. It’s a portrait of Szymanski as he was before the EMTs pulled me away.

“You drew this?”

I blow out a breath and nod.

“This is a really good likeness for someone who only spent a few minutes with him that night,” he says in his best good cop voice. “I told you Syzmanski lived on this street, but you swore you’d never seen him before. Are you sure about that?”

“A hundred percent,” I say.

Bruno examines the sketch with awe, tracing the outline of the face. The way he reacts triggers an instinct that I can trust him, that he’s the only one I can tell about my collection—and my compulsion.

“There’s more,” I say. “In the drawer to the right of the sink.”

Bruno turns and opens the drawer that in any other home would be a repository of ketchup packets, plastic forks and hex wrenches. He withdraws my sketchpad as if it’s evidence that needs to be bagged and tagged.

I take the pad from him and open it. Sketches flutter onto the table, every one depicting Syzmanski’s death throes.

Those ice-chip eyes lock on me. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Since that night.” The words crack in my dry throat.

Bruno squints. “You do remember something.”

I shake my head. He grabs my arm, encircling it easily with his large hand. I gasp.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he growls. “What do you know?”

“I don’t know!”

I wrench my arm free from his grip, but only because he lets me. Tears pour down my cheeks.

“All right.” Bruno pulls out a gray pocket square and hands it to me. “Let’s take a closer look at these.”

“I-I can’t.” The words wobble out of me, like I’m talking under water. I sniffle and blow my nose in the square.

The detective takes my hand and leads me to the daybed, where he spreads the sketches out on top of the disheveled sheets. His lips move as he counts them—nineteen. Each iteration of Syzmanski punches me in the gut, but I steel myself and study them with Bruno. His aftershave, clean and woodsy, cuts through the stale atmosphere and clears my head.

I notice the variations before he does. I rearrange a few portraits, trying to recall the order in which I drew them. The eyebrows broaden in the third sketch. The shadows beneath the eyes deepen in the sixth. His lips thicken in the twelfth. By the fifteenth, he’s got a unibrow, and his jaw is squared off.

“The face changes slightly each time,” I say, like a docent at the Met. “The eyebrows, the bags under the eyes, the width of the nose, the hairline.”

Bruno’s eyes widen when I hold up the first portrait and the newest one. He takes No. 19 from me. The muscles around his jaw tighten.

“You did this intentionally?” he asks.

My throat dries up again. I shake my head.

He sweeps his hand over the collection on the daybed. “Then how did this happen?”

“He always begins as a line, curling in on itself,” I say. “Then some force takes over, and I can’t stop. My pencil is like a planchette on a Ouija board. Yesterday in class we had a female model, and I drew his head on her body. His head!” I gesture at the array of portraits. “My instructor ‘loved the surrealism.’ I had to clench my jaw to keep from screaming that my doodles all end up as death masks. My teeth still hurt.”

“Stay with me,” I’d told Szymanski over and over, as I smoothed his matted hair back from his anguished face until the last breath slipped from his lips, sweetening the fetid city air. He apparently heard me. His eyes are still boring into me.

Bruno’s eyes are on me, too, but they’re unfocused, as if his brain and his gut are arguing over whether I’m nuts. I root for his gut as I fiddle with the loose button.

“I don’t understand your … artistic process,” he says, placing a hand on my shoulder, “but you need to keep drawing. This is all we’ve got. You are all we’ve got.”

I stare back at the faces on my daybed and say Michael Szymanski’s name to myself. I remember the beautiful eulogy his brother gave, his mother’s tears sparkling through the black veil covering her face, the white gladiolas filling every corner of the church. Something solidifies in my chest, a conviction that I can deliver justice for him.

From a lower cabinet, I pull out a box of art supplies. I select a charcoal pencil, tear a page from the sketchpad, and plunk myself down at the kitchen table. Bruno removes his tie and drapes it over the folding chair opposite mine. He does the same with his jacket, revealing his gun in its holster. I wonder how often he has to use it.

“I can’t do this with you watching me, Detective.” I wave at the fridge without looking up. “Why don’t you help yourself to a drink or something?”

“Fine.” He saunters over to the cabinets, looking for glasses, and finds them quickly—I don’t have a lot of cabinets.

Over the next hour, Bruno consumes at least a gallon of tap water as he explores the apartment. He runs his hands through his dark brown hair, cracking the gel that holds it in place. Periodically he stops to examine my dehydrated houseplants or the bookshelf that holds an embarrassingly large collection of crime fiction, which I’m going to donate to the library after this. Nothing but Regency romances from now on.

My fingers are cramping and coated with charcoal by the time I finish the fifth sketch of the day. Bruno catches my eye from where he’s standing at the window and races to the table. Shoulder to shoulder, we pore over the drawings, which no longer bear any resemblance to Szymanski.

“Is that the doer?” He points to the most recent portrait.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember for the hundredth time. Szymanski’s face, bloodied, gasping, and then the car. The driver pausing to check his work—his victim’s as good as dead—and rocketing off. Then Szymanski’s face again, his eyes desperately holding mine, not wanting me to break the connection. Almost like he was committing something to memory. To my memory?

Is that what happened? How else would I know how to draw the killer’s eyes? His hair? Any detail, really, after only a split second? With each question, my confidence in the truth grows. I did see the killer—through his victim’s eyes. I can help the police. I feel so light I almost laugh.

“Is that the doer?” Bruno asks again, his words coated with hope.

I lift my chin and meet his gaze. “It’s him. I can’t explain how I know, but I know.”

Bruno’s eyebrows rise. “Would you swear to it in court?”

I glance at my first portrait and nod. Relief sweeps through my chest, and for a moment I wonder if the feeling is mine or Szymanski’s.

Bruno punches a button on his phone. “I got a lead. Yeah. Meet me at the First Precinct, off Varick Street, ASAP.” He disconnects and turns to me. “We’re going to apprehend this scumbag. I might need you to come down to the station to ID him. But for now, stay put.”

“Wait—you recognize him?”

“Yeah. I do.” He hits me with his icy stare. “You’ve never seen him before?”

The blood rushes out of my head as I shake it.

“I’m taking this.” Bruno snatches the portrait. “If you feel compelled to keep drawing, go for it. You’re quite the artist, Ms. Schaefer.” He shoots me a quick smile.

I return the smile, my head floating above my leaden body.

He scoops his jacket up from the floor—it must have slid off the chair while I was drawing—and heads for the door.

“Wait for me here.” And then he’s gone, his feet pounding the stairs.

The apartment had stretched to accommodate the detective’s presence, and now it shrinks back to its original size. The walls draw in around me, and I practically bump into them as I hang up today’s sketches on my refrigerator. I gawk at the portraits until they swim in my vision.

As I gather my art supplies, something beneath the table catches my eye. It’s Bruno’s blue-and-gray-tie. I bend to pick it up and see a leather wallet, almost the same shade of brown as the wood floor. Inside is Bruno’s badge. I should call him.

The chirp of the intercom startles me. I rush over and press the button.

“Detective?” It didn’t take him long to notice his badge was missing.

“Yeah, it’s me.” The tinny speaker distorts the baritone voice.

I buzz him in and listen for the heavy tread on the stairs. When the footfalls stop outside the door, I open it. The man who fills the doorway grins, thick lips drawing back over crooked yellow teeth. He’s a few inches shorter than Bruno, barrel-chested, his square jaw encrusted with stubble. Dark sunglasses hide his eyes. Brown hair protrudes from his hoodie, stick straight—a quiver of arrows aimed at my stunned face.

He slithers inside and shuts the door.

“Who are you?” I ask.

His grin widens, reminding me of a crocodile. “Someone who couldn’t wait to see you again.”

His loose-fitting jeans rustle as he slinks away to look at the sketches on the fridge. Gloved hands pull back his hood and raise the sunglasses to the top of his head. He leans toward the portrait on the end, and a sliver of his profile comes into view—sunken eyes, familiar nose. Fear lances through me like lightning.

“Who are you?” I ask again, voice rising.

“Amazing,” he says to himself. He picks up one of today’s drawings and runs a finger down the face. “I didn’t know I was so pretty.”

He turns to me, and I flinch. His unibrow dips between dark eyes, ringed with shadows. He snorts through his wide nose—the nose at the center of the portraits I just drew. My heart stutters.

“I was just going to rough you up a bit,” he says, tossing the sketch onto the table. “Scare you, you know? But I saw your cop friend leave, and I bet he’s seen these, so I’ll have to go with Plan B.”

He stalks toward me. I creep backward, putting the armchair and side table between us. I snatch the tumbler from the table and hurl it at him. He dodges and it bounces off the daybed onto the floor. His laugh rattles me to the core.

“You wanna play?” He leers at me. “It took me long enough to find you, so, sure, let’s play, sweetheart.”

I grab the wine bottle as he darts around the armchair. He lunges at me and I swing the bottle at his head. He ducks. I swing it again and hit the table. The bottle shatters. I see the blood on my hand, still clutching the broken neck, before I feel the glass shard stuck there.

While I’m distracted, he seizes me by the throat. I slam the jagged stub of the bottle into his arm, inadvertently wedging the shard deeper into my hand. He releases me and touches his oozing wound, swearing.

I make for the door, but he grasps my arm, a sinister echo of Bruno’s hold minutes earlier. He pulls a switchblade from the pocket of his hoodie. One flick and the blade grazes my ear.

“You do wanna play, don’t you, sweetheart?” He bares his crocodile teeth. His breath reeks of cigarettes, coffee and decay.

“No! Let me go!”

I claw his face and stomp his foot, dropping all my weight on it. He groans and lashes out with the blade.

The door flies open, and we both spin around as Bruno bursts in, gun drawn. I don’t see the flash of steel before the switchblade slices into my side. I fall over, screaming. Two shots rip through the air. The perp joins me on the floor in a pool of blood.

Bruno clamps his radio to his ear. “I need EMTs at 50 Bayard Street, Unit 4B. Two down, one likely dead.” He nudges the perp with his toe.

“Copy that, EMTs on the way,” the dispatcher says.

A coppery taste fills my mouth, and I gag. Bruno kneels beside me, his hair like a dark halo. He pulls a sheet from the daybed and wads it up. I wince when he presses it to my side. Our eyes meet.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

A breath flutters from my lips like a wounded butterfly.

“Allison.” Bruno brushes red-gold tresses off my face.

The gravity of his glittering gaze unnerves me. The apartment fades away. I shudder.

“Stay with me, Allison.” His voice breaks. “Stay with me.”

I close my eyes and grant his wish.

BIO: K.G. Gardner is the pen name of Kristen Hallam, a content strategist, podcast host and fiction writer who loves to bend and blend genres. Her short fiction has appeared in the Shenandoah Fantastic and the Charlottesville Fantastic anthologies. She is a member of the Charlottesville Writers Critique Circle, James River Writers and the Women's Fiction Writers Association. She lives in Charlottesville, Virginia, with her family.

Follow on Social

Literary Garage: Storytelling with grit, heart, and no off-ramp.

© 2025. All rights reserved.

Connect

Follow us on Substack for updates and news

Special Features Editor and Warrior God: Michael Downing

Member IBPA