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The feeling is replaced very quickly by a sickening stab of fear.

Because there is a man in my apartment.

Sitting on my couch—eating cookies.

4

Years ago, I wrote a paper on the human brain’s instinctive patterns when faced with an emergency situation. Despite evolutionary advancements, when faced with danger, the human brain recesses to its primitive, mammalian roots and defaults to one of two behaviors. It either shifts into fight-mode and finds a way to battle the perceived threat, or it flees.

I have often wondered which of my instincts would kick in if faced with a bona fide threat.

Turns out, the answer is flight—it’s not even a contest.

I don’t even look for a weapon as I sprint at full speed toward my bedroom and slam the door behind me.

The moment I’m inside, I drop my towel and reach for the lock, only realizing as my hand closes over the cool metal handle that there is no lock—there has never been one.

Barricade.

I look at my IKEA desk, wondering how much of a fight the particleboard would put up against a man his size.

He was sitting, but he looked big.

He felt big.

My defense plan is interrupted by a soft knock on the door and the sound of a male voice.

“Annalise?” it says. “I’m so sorry I scared you. I did call out when I let myself in.”

I reach down for the towel at my feet, pulling it around my naked body as if the flimsy cotton will offer some sort of protection.

“I’m calling the police,” I lie, my eyes darting around the room, looking for my phone, which I realize in a moment of sickening clarity is still in the purse I left hanging by my front door.

“They hang out at the doughnut shop down the street. They will be here in minutes,” I hedge, hoping I sound convincing.

“Don’t do that.” His voice has lost the calm of a moment ago. “I think there’s been some mistake? I’m Mackenzie Smith. I’m supposed to be moving in here today. Your neighbor gave me a key.”

Harmony? No. Why would she…

“You are not Mackenzie Smith,” I tell him, getting back to the facts. “Mackenzie Smith is a woman. She is from West Lake and loves cats and plays the tuba.”

There’s a beat of silence. It’s followed by a very soft ahhhhh.

“I am Mackenzie Smith,” he says. “I swear it. I’m more of a dog guy, but cats are fine, and I think I know what might have happened here. Can I ask…did you google me? Or her, I guess? Is that how you know about the tuba?”

My cheeks heat. “I wasn’t going to just let some random stranger move in here without knowing a few things about them first, and I don’t need to explain anything to you because you are not Mackenzie Smith, and I need you to leave my apartment immediately.”

There is a long moment of complete silence. I crane my neck, listening for footsteps or handle jiggling—any sort of clue about what is happening on the other side of the door. Finally, there’s a quiet groan to the floorboards as if he’s shifting his weight, then a pop, like a knee or hip being cracked, and then the sound of something being slid along the floor.

I look down and see a small plastic driver’s license being pushed through the space under my door.

I pick it up.

My eyes immediately shoot to the name, which does, in fact, say Mackenzie Smith. They move to the picture. It’s a black-and-white of the same man who was sitting at The Bagel Stop and then on my couch.

Now that my adrenaline has returned to adequate levels, I can study his face: the sharp, square jaw, the slightly curled dark blond hair, and the eyes that, even with the grayscale tone of the photo, I can tell are a beautiful light blue.

“I think I might know what happened,” he says again, startling me so much that I drop the ID. “It’s not the first time we’ve been mixed up,” he continues. “She’s a few years younger than me. Our town is pretty small, so we solved the issue by going by Mac and Kenzie. I can assure you I’m the Mackenzie Smith you’ve been emailing for the last month. I answered your ad online. I moved here because I got a job, playing in a band.”