Her gray dots pulse…
Oh, okay. Right. Well, I’ll be back at the apartment in, say, 45mins. Can you wait that long?
My resolve solidifies as I type.
No problem, I’ll see you then.
18
Emily’s House
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 13
As I make my wayup the concrete steps toward the tree-shaded entrance to Emily’s building I realize I have no idea which apartment is hers, the rental document having given me no further information than her building number.
Once in the entranceway I head over to the mailboxes, examining the names on each. The building comprises only four apartments and number four’s label, recently replaced, readsBRYANT.The door is directly next to the mailbox wall.
I take a step back from its peephole, not expecting to be at this stage of my plan quite so quickly. I dig out Emily’s rental document from my bag as a kind of talisman and draw my hand back to knock. But one step ahead of me, I hear the latch unlock abruptly and the door swings away from me before I can make contact.
“Sorry, I could hear you rooting around out there.” I hear Emily’s voice before I see her and my heart leaps in my chest. “The walls are pretty thin.” She smiles as she steps forward into the light.
After everything that’s happened over the last few days, in spite of all my dark imaginings, and in spite of fearing the police were wrong, I really did expect to see the original Emily smiling back at me. But she isn’t.
This must be who the police ID’d last night, the woman who turned up at my door two nights ago. Emily’s bracelet dangles from her wrist as she leans against the door. I recall Officer Cortez’s words—if the woman they ID’d is not Emily then we’d be talking about a much bigger crime.
I realize I haven’t spoken yet and the woman’s smile wavers in the awkward silence I’ve created.
“Oh, here’s your—” I blurt, thrusting the crumpled rental document between us. She looks down at it unconcerned before carefully taking it from my hand.
“That’s great, thanks. I actually returned the car yesterday. But thanks for dropping it around,” she says.
I feel my eyebrows shoot up. “Why?”
She holds my gaze for a second and for the first time since meeting her, I get the feeling she knows I know she’s not Emily.
She gives a slow blink before speaking. “Listen, do you want to come in for a second? I could make you a coffee or something. We never did have thatcoffee date,did we?”
The absolute last thing in the world I want to do right now is go into the dimly lit flat with her. But I’m suddenly at a complete loss as to how to express that in a socially acceptable way. After all, she doesn’t exactly look threatening in her Lululemon yoga outfit and grippy socks. And besides, I came here for answers, didn’t I?
I pull myself up short, because no, I didn’t come here for answers. I came here to see if Emily was okay. I came here for closure so I could forget about the whole thing and concentrate on work. But now it’s pretty clear that Emily is not fine. I can either try to find out what the hell is going on or get back in my car and call Cortez. But what if they send the same officers back and she fools them again? I suppose the only way I’m going to find out what’s really going on is to do it myself.
“Yes, that’d be great,” I say. “Thanks.” She ushers me in past her and I hear theclunkof the latch dropping as she pulls the door closed behind us.
The apartment isn’t what I was expecting. As my eyes adjust from the sunlight outside, I see it actually has a light and clean IKEA aesthetic. The brilliant white of the walls is softened by the rich emerald of houseplants, ferns, and hanging succulents dotted along bookshelves and low coffee tables. Littered used scripts, half-drained coffee cups, and the odd item of discarded clothing are the only signs of inhabitance in the ordered minimalism. “I returned the car because Ubers are just easier, you know. Parking in LA is too much stress,” she says with a sigh as I follow her through to the eat-in kitchen.
She returned Emily’s car, and no one batted an eye. I don’t know what the hell is going on here but I resolve that I will not leave this apartment until I find out.
We enter a kitchen with its original 1960s design, mint green, with a round-edged sink, arched chrome taps, and a freestanding gas hob cooker. A ’60s housewife’s dream and clearly where the apartment’s millennial modernization stopped.
The woman clicks on the kettle and pulls out a chair at the Formica table, gesturing for me to do the same.
But I don’t.
She looks at me curiously. “Is something wrong,” she asks, “you seem a little…?”
I could just come out and say it. I could, or I could play along a little longer and see where this goes. There’s still the possibility I’ve gotten all this wrong. In which case I have hounded this poor woman, stalked her, reported her to the police, and now I’ve forced my way into her house to confront her with my own complete delusion.
“No, I’m fine.” I smile. “Just jet lag.” I pull out my seat and sit down opposite her. “So how’s the ex-boyfriend with the dislocated ankle?” I ask brightly, knowing full well that he’s completely made up.
