Maybe she wasn’t home. Itwasa weekday, and Sandra wouldn’t have been the only person she was employed by. Of course, there was also the chance the intercom was on the fritz. Ours had stopped working for about a month earlier in the year, and it didn’t matter that you included instructions in all caps with the door’s security code for delivery guys—no one reads. They’d all call, confused, asking why I wasn’t buzzing them inside, or fuck it, just leave the package or takeout at the front door, like there wasn’t a one-hundred-percent probability it’d be snatched in three point five seconds after being left unattended. This was New York, after all.
I tried the neighbor opposite Marie: E. Walker in 2F—front apartment.
A nasally guy immediately answered. “Yes?”
“Oh. Hi. Sorry to bother you. I was trying to reach—”
The door buzzed before I could even finish. I grabbed the handle and stepped inside. It was as hot in the hallway as it was outside, and seemed to only get warmer with every step I took to the second floor. 2F opened to my back as I reached the landing, the sound of an oscillating fan on full blast filling the space. I looked over my shoulder at a man about Pop’s age, although shorter, and with considerably less hair on his head, wearing a silk robe that barely covered his thighs.
E. Walker, I presumed, struck a pose against the doorframe and grinned brazenly. “Right this way, Officer. I’ve been very naughty.”
My face heated, and it had nothing to do with the sweatbox I was currently standing in. “Er… I’m not… I think you have me confused with someone else.”
He frowned and pushed off the doorjamb. “You’re not Officer Stud from Hunks-R-Us?”
“No, but that is the best compliment I’ve ever received, short of the time my husband attempted to ravish me in a men’s dressing room because he seems to think I can pull off a tailored suit.”
Walker adjusted the tie on his robe and said with a huff, “You’re a little rude.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Except make me shoot my load early,” he argued.
“I’m… just here to talk to Marie.” I jutted a thumb at 2R before turning, knocking a few times, and then listening. No movement came from inside.
“She’s home,” Walker piped up, and I could hear his silk robe whispering against skin.
“I don’t think so,” I concluded, not turning because I had no idea what E. Walker was doing, but if he was stripping down in the hallway, I didn’t want to be a part of it. Retrieving another business card from my wallet, I paused to dig through my messenger bag for a pen, intending to leave a “Please call me xoxo” note on the back of the card.
“She leaves at 6:45 every morning,” Walker stated, having sidled up beside me without notice.
I jumped, gripped the card to my chest, and swore.
Walker was wearing a different, still silk but now knee-length, robe with some kind of floral pattern design.
I glanced back to his still-open door to see the sexier ensemble was pooled on the floor. So yes, good call on having not turned around a moment prior. “Maybe you just didn’t notice her leave.”
Walker shook his head like that was the dumbest thing he’d heard all week. “No. 6:45 every day but Sunday. She has a keychain that looks like one of those old hotel tags—only it saysGod bless my shitty, overpriced apartment. And it’s so loud when it bangs against the rest of the keys, I always know when she’s locking her door.”
From an outsider perspective, Walker probably sounded like a creep, but honestly, this was how old walk-ups and tenement living worked in New York. You might not know your neighbor’s name, might never speak to them, but you’re sure as fuck on the up-and-up when it came to their daily schedule, bad habits, and deliveries. Calvin and I had a guy like Walker on the second floor of our building. I’d taken to calling him the Godfather. He knew everyone’s personal business—didn’t even matter that we were on the fourth floor. Whenever I crossed paths with him on the stairs, he’d mention something like, “I guess you were running late for work yesterday,” or “Did you grab your FedEx package from the vestibule?” or “Is your kitchen sink still on the fritz?” That last one had been mildly concerning because I hadn’t even told the super that our sink was acting up.
Walker was, clearly, the Godfather of this building.
I reached into my bag a second time for the pen. “If she’s home but not answering, maybe she’s sleeping or—”
“At two in the afternoon?” Walker brushed me aside with a flutter of his hand. “Marie,” he called, adding a few extra e’s to her name. “You’ve got a handsome gentleman calling on you.” He looked at me and asked, “What’s your inseam?”
“I think that’s between me and my husband.”
Walker harumphed. He gave Marie’s doorknob a jiggle, only for the unlocked door to creak open. “Uh… Marie?”
I put a hand on the old guy’s shoulder, pulled him from the doorway, and whispered, “Stand back.”
My anxiety, which had been relatively low, despite the day’s series of unfortunate events, ratcheted up to “Danger, Will Robinson” in the blink of an eye. My gut flip-flopped with nervous energy, a clammy sweat had broken out under my arms, and my breathing was like playing spiccato on a violin. Something was very wrong, and my entire body knew it.
I moved to the side, flattened myself against the wall, and reached to nudge the door open farther with my knuckles. “Marie Yang?” I called into the unlit room. “My name’s Sebastian. I’m here with your neighbor—”
“It’s Earl,” Walker said over me. “Marie? Why haven’t you locked your door?”
