The whoosh and slide of the main door steals my attention, but when I turn, I find an older gentleman making his way to the elevator, a shiny mahogany cane in hand. He gives me a nod before stepping in and disappearing behind the closing doors.
Scanning the lobby, I glance toward the management office and find the woman with the bright lipstick playing on her phone, only the phone seems to be pointed in my direction, unnaturally upright. Her fingertips are tapping against the screen, but no one texts holding their phone straight up and down.
She’s trying to take a picture while pretending she isn’t.
Great.
I turn away, chin tucked against my chest.
Taking my time, I gather my things and see myself out. There could be a million reasons why this woman hasn’t left her apartment yet this morning. Maybe she doesn’t go into the office until later? Maybe she went home with someone last night after drinks? Maybe she doesn’t work on Fridays?
Regardless, the office manager could quickly and easily become a thorn in my side, and the last thing I need is to be banished from the Harcourt when I’ve yet to have my moment with this imposter.
A minute later, I’m in my car, debating whether I should hang out here for another twenty or thirty minutes on the off chance she is home and happens to be heading into the office late today.
I had no idea how long I’d be out today, but I was sure to leave a note for Niall this time. “Running errands,” was all it said. I even added a smiley face so he wouldn’t worry like before.
I decide to stick around but only for an hour.
It’s still midmorning by the time I pull into the driveway. She never showed. The entire morning was a bust. When I get inside, I plan to crumple the note I’d left earlier and toss it in the garbage. I don’t want him asking where I went or why. He doesn’t need another reason to worry about me or to doubt my frame of mind.
We haven’t seen each other since that awkward kiss last night, but I’m hopeful nothing will change between us. We’re both mature adults. I’m confident we can move forward.
I climb out of my car, hit the lock button, and head to the back door, keys in hand as I scan my surroundings. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed; I’m constantly worried someone’s going to jump out from behind a bush or from behind the detached garage and grab me.
As I get closer, I notice a half-bent brown and black tail poking up from behind one of the steps.
Beatrice.
She mews before she makes a full appearance, and I realize she’s licking at an empty can of tuna fish someone had placed next to the back steps.
It wasn’t me.
And I know for a fact it wouldn’t have been Niall.
He’s deathly allergic to cats, and he’s the one who cautioned me about not feeding her in the first place—not that I needed to be cautioned. Everyone knows not to feed animals unless you want them coming around on a regular basis, and the last thing I need is for something to become dependent on me in any capacity. I need to be able to take care of myself first before I can take care of another living, breathing life-form.
“Sorry, Bea.” I take the empty can of tuna before sticking my key in the lock.
Once inside, I toss the thing in the trash. It isn’t even a brand I buy or keep in the pantry, so no idea where it could’ve possibly come from.
Maybe she carried it here from somewhere else?
Settling in, I heat a frozen entree for an early lunch and check the other Brienne’s Instagram to see if anything has changed.
It hasn’t.
The timer on the microwave counts down from twenty seconds, and from the corner of my eye, I spot Enid Davies’s silver head of hair passing outside my kitchen window. She’s headed for my back door, and I meet her on the steps.
“Hi,” I say.
“Got some of your mail.” She hands me a stack. “Again . . .”
“Thank you.” I tuck the envelopes under my arm.
Beatrice, who hasn’t moved on yet, wraps herself around Enid’s legs, gazing up at her and mewing as though she’s starving.
“There’s that darn cat again.” Enid clucks her tongue. “Gorgeous little thing, but she needs to go home instead of hanging out around here all the time. I’ve never understood people who just let their animals roam the neighborhood, you know?”
“Do you know where she lives?” I ask.
“Here. There. Everywhere.” Enid swats her hand in the air. “If I did, believe me, I’d be over there in a heartbeat. This gal has trampled my begonias eight too many times, and quite frankly, I’m sick of it.”
“Try orange and lemon peels,” I say. “I heard they’re good deterrents. Cayenne pepper works, too, but that just seems mean.”
I don’t tell her that I secretly enjoy Beatrice’s visits. It’s almost like having a pet but with none of the worry and responsibility.
“She means well.” I wink at Enid before stooping down and scratching Bea under the chin.
She purrs, rubbing her furry face against me, and then struts away.
“I told Niall not to feed her,” Enid says with a sigh.
“What?” I must have misheard her.
“Niall,” she says. “I’ve seen him set food out a few times. And last time he swung by here, I told him he shouldn’t do that. But you know men. Can’t tell them anything.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure of what?” she asks.
“Niall’s allergic. He wouldn’t have put food out.”
Enid’s brows knit, her forehead covered in lines. “I’m pretty sure it was him. I mean, it’s always been early when I’ve seen it. Predawn. Yelled from across the driveway, and he waved. Guess I just assumed it was him every time. Maybe it wasn’t. Anyway, I’ll let you be. I’m sure you’re . . . busy.”
She waves before cutting across the driveway and returning to her mauve-and-marigold Queen Anne.
I head in, locking the door behind me and checking it three times before double-checking the front door.
I refuse to believe Niall’s been putting food out for the cat.
But if it wasn’t him . . .
CHAPTER 15
I’ve taken refuge in the kitchen most of Friday afternoon. This room with its abundance of windows and light and its generous views of the entire north side of my house—including my driveway and garage—feels the safest for now.
The flash of headlights through one of the windows just past five sends my heart into arrhythmia—until I spot the Volvo emblem.
The lights go out.
Niall exits the driver’s side.
I realize I’m clutching at my chest, lungs silently screaming for air.
When he comes in, I don’t tell him he startled me—or that I’ve been waiting hours to ask him one question.
“That cat was hanging out by the back door today,” I say.
“What cat?” He scratches at his temple before shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it on a nearby hook.
“That sweet tortoiseshell one that comes around sometimes,” I say.
The shallow valley between his brows tells me he’s racking his brain. If he can’t remember the damn cat, he sure as hell isn’t the one leaving out cans of tuna.