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“I’m worried,” she murmurs.
A cold shiver moves up my body. Me too. “I have to get ready for work.”
“Don’t walk anywhere alone, Lizzy.”
“I won’t. Don’t worry so much. I’ll call you later.” She knows I’m lying. I won’t call her. Padding to the kitchen, I drop the phone on the counter.
“Coffee?” Charlotte offers. My focus goes straight to the black box still on our table. “You were moaning in your sleep again last night, calling out for some guy Jack,” she announces.
The color drains from my face.
Not noticing my state, she points upwards and says, “I think we have a new neighbor.”
“Sounds like it,” I muse, taking the box and pushing it into the trash. “I could hear his cellphone ringing in my room like the ceiling was made of paper,” I add, ignoring her quirked brow at the box protruding from the lid.
“The vent in your room goes into that apartment. This building used to be one big gun shop. It was converted into apartments by the new owner. You can’t fart without the neighbors hearing it.” She shrugs, peeling a banana. “Why do you think I didn’t take that room?” She winks, biting around a mouthful.
“Did someone say coffee?” a man calls out from Charlotte’s room.
My eyes dart in the direction. “What the hell?”
“No,” Charlotte calls back. “Time to leave.”
“Who’s the guy?” I mouth, hating random men are in the apartment without me knowing. Blood blossoms on the pad of my thumb from me subconsciously picking at the small scab.
“I couldn’t sleep, so hit up Tinder.” She smirks. When I can’t sleep, I go for a run or watch TV. Am I normal—or is she?
“Have you heard any more about the murder?” I ask her, flipping on the TV, searching for the news channel, squeezing my thumb so she doesn’t see the blood.
“Nope. Been busy,” she emphasizes, gesturing the half-eaten banana to her vagina. I’ve known Charlotte for around two years, so I know she needs her beauty and worth validated by men.
Footfalls overhead draw our gazes upward. The door closing sounds from above, and we both narrow our eyes at our front door. She beats me to our peephole, and I want to shove her out of the way, demanding I get to see who it is since I’ve been thinking about them when I’m in bed. Lonely.
“Can’t see his face.” His. Why does the confirmation make my stomach dip? I take her spot once she gives it up, but only see a glimpse of a hat as he disappears down the stairs.
“Maybe we should get him a plant,” Charlotte ponders, handing me a mug of coffee.
“Since when have you been neighborly?” I scoff, going back to the TV, thinking about poor Mrs. Briggs who lives downstairs. Charlotte likes to torment her by talking filth in her presence. I chew on my cuticles as I nervously wait for anything about yesterday to be announced.
“Being nosey isn’t neighborly.” She tips the mug to her lips and takes a sip. Tinder Guy breezes in with my towel wrapped around his waist like he’s a tenant here.
“You can go now,” Charlotte pipes up, pouring herself more coffee.
He snorts an un-amused laugh, then grabs a jacket from the couch and slings the wet towel from around his waist at me before waltzing back down the hall. I brush it away from me, shuddering. He returns a minute later, buttoning his jeans. The atmosphere is thick. One day, she’ll invite the wrong person over and we’ll both end up dead. Mama. A mirage of the news articles I keep on the crimes of Jack’s father flicker through my mind like a sideshow. Two women murdered! That monster will forever torment me.
“Next time, just swipe left,” Tinder spits at Charlotte. She saunters over to the front door, opening it. “I don’t do next times.” She slams the door behind him, making me flinch.
“Why be so hostile? You just had intercourse with that guy, then treat him like he peed in your cereal.”
“Intercourse?” She cackles. “Are you ninety? We fucked, Liz. He should have left last night. He’s outstayed his welcome. I’m going to take a bath,” she announces, and then I’m alone, waiting anxiously for the news to mention anything about Abigail, but it doesn’t. I find myself fidgety, pacing, sitting, pacing, sitting.
The problem with having no drapes on the windows is you always feel like you’re being watched. An eerie shiver runs through my blood as I study the window to see if our neighbor is home. She’s usually finished work by now and is making a fuss of her cats. She has two. The window watching works both ways. I’m a daydreamer. I can gaze into her apartment without even realizing I’m doing it until she’s staring back at me.
“You ever going to tell me about this Jack?” Charlotte asks from out of nowhere, drawing my attention to her. She’s dressed now and slipping on her shoes.
