"We need to hire someone before she causes another incident."
My knuckles pressed flat against the chilled wood of the front door. I kept my ear angled toward the crack, listening to the frantic scrape of my mother's slippers as she paced the foyer.
"Money is not the issue," Marilyn whispered into her cell phone, her voice tight and frantic. "Just find a professional. Someone who knows how to handle delusions."
I stepped back. The floorboards groaned under my weight.
Marilyn went silent.
I turned and walked back to the dining table, staring at the empty porcelain plate waiting for Sam.
Three days after the hallway incident, my mother unlocked the apartment door and ushered a stranger inside.
"Della," Marilyn called out, her voice pitching up in forced, brittle cheer. "Come out here! Look who came to visit."
I stood up from the sofa and walked into the entryway.
A man stood on the welcome mat. He wore a sharp charcoal suit, a crisp white collar, and a maroon silk tie. His hair was styled back with expensive pomade.
"Who is this?" I asked.
"It is Jonah," Marilyn said. She grabbed his arm, pulling him further into the room. "Jonah Coleman. Your boyfriend."
Jonah offered a bright, perfectly measured smile. "Hi, Della. It has been a while. I missed you."
He took a step forward, raising his arms slightly as if expecting a hug.
I did not move. "My boyfriend."
"Yes, sweetheart," Marilyn insisted. She fluttered around him, taking his suit jacket. "He wanted to surprise you. He has been working so much lately."
"I brought lunch," Jonah said. He held up a white paper bag bearing the logo of a high-end Italian deli. "I got that roasted turkey sandwich you love."
I crossed my arms over my chest. "I do not eat turkey."
Jonah's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He shot a quick, panicked glance at Marilyn.
"She means she has not eaten turkey recently," Marilyn jumped in, her hands wringing together. "Her tastes change. You know how it is, Jonah."
"Right, of course." Jonah recovered quickly, plastering the grin back onto his face. He set the bag on the console table. "We can order something else. Whatever you want, Della."
I began to circle him.
My bare feet made no sound on the rug. I studied the sharp crease of his trousers. The polished leather of his oxfords. The complete absence of grease, sea salt, or dirt anywhere on his person.
"Where did we meet, Jonah?" I asked, stopping directly behind him.
Jonah shifted his weight. "We met at the coffee shop downtown. The one by the library."
"I do not drink coffee from shops. I make it at home."
"You spilled your tea, then," he corrected smoothly, turning to face me. "I gave you my napkins."
"Sam and I met at a marina," I said. "He dropped his wrench in the water. I fished it out with a boat hook."
"Della, please," Marilyn pleaded from the corner. "Jonah cares about you. He just wants to spend time with you."
I stepped in front of him again, closing the distance until we were inches apart. "Two years ago, a woman named Vivienne used to come over every Tuesday."
Jonah tracked my movement, his posture rigid. "Vivienne?"
"Yes. She brought casseroles. She smiled exactly like you are smiling right now." I tilted my head, examining the tight corners of his mouth. "Then came Marcus. Then Dr. Aris. They all had that same look."
"I do not know those people," Jonah said.
"I kept a visitor log, Mom," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on Jonah. "A whole notebook full of names. People who came to stare at the crazy woman waiting for a ghost."
"I am not here to stare at you," Jonah said. His baritone voice dropped into a soothing, practiced cadence. He reached a hand out, aiming for my shoulder. "I am here for you."
I slapped his hand away.
The smack echoed loudly in the small entryway.
Jonah flinched, pulling his arm back against his chest.
I reached out and grabbed the knot of his maroon silk tie.
"Hey!" Jonah protested. He grabbed my wrist, his fingers clamping down hard.
I yanked the tie forward, forcing him to stumble a half-step toward me.
"Sam never wears this kind of tie," I said, staring directly into his dark, alarmed eyes. "He hates silk. He says it feels like a noose."
"Della, let go of him!" Marilyn shouted, rushing forward.
I released the fabric and shoved his chest. Jonah stumbled backward, hitting the edge of the console table. The paper bag tipped over, spilling a wrapped sandwich onto the floor.
"You can stop pretending now," I told him, wiping my hands on my jeans. "The act is pathetic."
I turned my back on them and walked into the living room.
Silence hung heavy in the apartment.
Through the reflection in the television screen, I watched Jonah drop the professional facade. His shoulders slumped. He let out a long, ragged exhale and tugged aggressively at his collar, loosening the ruined knot. The polite boyfriend vanished, leaving behind a weary man who just wanted to clock out.
"I think I should go, Mrs. Whitmore," Jonah muttered. He bent down to retrieve his leather briefcase from the floor.
"No, wait, Jonah, just give her a minute," Marilyn whispered, grabbing his sleeve. "She is just adjusting."
"I will come back tomorrow. This is not working today."
He yanked his briefcase upward.
The brass latch snagged on the edge of the console table. The metal clasp snapped open with a sharp click.
A thick stack of papers slid out, scattering across the hardwood floor like fallen leaves.
"Damn it," Jonah hissed. He dropped to his knees, frantically sweeping the documents together.
I turned around and walked back toward the foyer.
A single sheet of thick parchment had glided across the floor, stopping right at the tip of my toes.
Jonah lunged for it, his fingers stretching out.
I stepped on the corner of the page, pinning it to the wood.
He froze, looking up at me. The panic in his eyes was entirely genuine now.
I bent down, brushing his hand out of the way, and picked up the document.
Bold black letters stretched across the top margin: Companionship Employment Agreement - Client: Marilyn Whitmore.
