Slowing down, I round the final turn in the staircase, only to come face-to-face with a shapeless form in an olive-green raincoat.
“Gotta watch where you’re going.” A tall man with inky-dark hair and a five-o’clock shadow yanks the hood of his slicker down, revealing an icy glare, irises so pale they nearly glow in the dim hallway.
“My mistake,” I say, which isn’t technically an apology. I don’t make a habit out of apologizing to assholes.
He pushes past me, trudging down the stairs with heavy steps that eventually fade, and I find myself standing in front of apartment 2A.
Almost there.
My heart flutters in my chest, all but climbing up the back of my throat. My keys are heavy and warm in my clenched fist, and I trek to the next door.
A gold number “2” and letter “B” are fixed to a painted black door, the finish pristine and almost mirrorlike.
I glance up and down the hall before placing my ear to the door, listening for some sign of life on the other side.
Silence.
I give it another minute, shove my fear into the hidden depths of my soul where it belongs, and retrieve the monogrammed key ring from my front right jacket pocket.
The key slides into the keylock with ease before I feel the pop of the lock.
Maybe I should’ve knocked first, but given the fact that someone mailed me a key to this exact apartment, I think we’re past that formality. If anyone’s here, if anyone asks what the hell I’m doing, I can blame it on the key.
Heat creeps up my neck before blooming in my cheeks, and I can’t help but feel like a cross between a burglar and a snooping, nosy teenager about to search their parents’ bedroom for God knows what. But my curiosity is quashed the second I twist the knob and push the door open.
The place is dark, nothing but drawn curtains and dark forms where furniture should be. Reaching to my right, I glide my palm along the nearest wall until I come across a switch.
A second later, three lights above a short kitchen peninsula illuminate the space, and as my eyes adjust, I scan my surroundings.
Sofa. Chair. Kitchen table.
And cardboard moving boxes stacked in every corner.
I let the door fall shut, and with a firm grip on my keys, I tread from the kitchen to the living room to a bedroom and back. Each space is home to unopened moving boxes and haphazardly placed furniture.
Returning to the kitchen, I check the cabinets—empty. And then I check the refrigerator. Also empty.
No one lives here—yet.
An unsealed manila envelope resting on the counter manages to catch my eye a moment later, and I help myself to its contents.
It’s a lease agreement, with the Harcourt Apartments’ logo printed on top.
Six months.
Nine hundred seventy-five dollars a month plus water and gas.
I flip to the next page, eyes landing on the signature line. The agreement was signed over a week ago—and next to the date is none other than my name.
But it isn’t my handwriting.
Not even close.
Sliding my phone from my pocket, I begin to call Niall, hands trembling so hard I can hardly manage to hold the damn thing steady.
He’d know what to do, what to say, what to make of all this.
Then again, he knows nothing about this. I haven’t so much as mentioned the key to him. He might question my sanity, and I wouldn’t blame him.
The line rings once before I hear footsteps and a muffled voice from the hall, growing louder by the second. A rush of heat radiates through me, and my breath shallows. I end the call and silence my phone.
Funny how easily I talked myself into this, and now, at zero hour, when it’s too late to duck out of here unnoticed, I’m shaking in my Wellingtons, wishing I was anywhere but here.
The voice is closer now—just on the other side of the door.
Eyeing a small closet by the entry, I sneak inside and shut the door behind me as quietly as I can manage.
And then I hold my breath, squeezing the handle until my knuckles throb.
If someone comes in here, if someone tries to open the door, they’ll think it’s stuck. That should at least buy me some time.
A crack between the door and the jamb provides me with a sliver-sized view of the kitchen.
It happens so fast—the apartment door opening and slamming.
The hasty trip-trap of heels across the refinished wood floors.
The jangle of keys falling on the quartz peninsula followed by the soft rumple of an overflowing paper grocery bag.
And then a voice.
“That’s so weird,” a woman says. “Yeah, if you could look into it, that’d be great. I wouldn’t want the keys in the wrong hands. When do you think you can change the locks?” She places a handbag on the counter: a Goyard St. Louis in brown and black—just like the one currently resting on the top shelf of my closet. It was an investment piece originally, one I purchased with part of my inheritance after my grandmother passed, but every time I’ve used it, I’ve felt nothing but guilt since I didn’t save for it or earn it. “Perfect.”
My body turns stiff when I watch her shrug out of a classic khaki mackintosh much like the one I’m currently wearing, and I squeeze the life out of the interior knob until she drapes the jacket over a barstool.
That was close.
If I had half a grip on this situation, I’d burst out of the closet like a crazy person and confront this lunatic, but if she’s smart enough to pull this off, she’s smart enough to take basic safety precautions. I can imagine scaring the life out of her, only to be stabbed in the jugular with some knifelike apparatus on her key chain—assuming she shares my affinity for preparedness.
She’s leaning against the counter now, and I can finally get a good look at her.
Same chestnut hair as me, cut into a familiar angled bob like the one I used to wear before I allowed it to grow out.
Same angled chin and stick-straight nose.
Same clear-framed, metropolitan-chic glasses.
Her nails are pale and neutral—classic taupe, I believe—the very same color I once gravitated toward for its versatility and chicness. And when she tucks her hair behind one ear, she reveals a dangling filigree earring in rose gold—the same style I used to wear. In fact, I’d purchased a pair similar to that on vacation in Saint Thomas.
She appears to be tapping out a text message. Then another. And she nibbles at the end of her thumb as she waits for a response.
A minute later, she places her phone on the counter screen-side down and begins to unload the contents of the paper grocery bag.
Two bottles of white wine.
A loaf of bread.
Three frozen dinners.
An assortment of canned goods.
A box of oatmeal.
Feminine hygiene products.
Toothpaste.
Toilet paper.
I think she’s planning to live here . . . as me.
There’s no other explanation for any of this.
With bated breath, I wait for an opportunity to slip out of here unnoticed, watching as “Brienne” heats a frozen dinner, checks her phone every other minute, and carefully unpacks half a box of kitchen gear.
After she’s finished eating what smells like lasagna, she retrieves a white charger cord from her bag and plugs it into an outlet next to the stove. A second later, she fires off another text before finally charging her phone and sashaying out of the kitchen and down the hall.