I shoved my key into the deadbolt of apartment 11A. The brass lock turned with a heavy clunk. I pushed the door open, expecting to find my mother still standing in the foyer, writing a check to the actor she hired to play my boyfriend.
The entryway was completely empty. The apartment was dead quiet.
Then a voice drifted from the living room.
"You always did leave your keys in the lock, Dell."
I froze. My fingers tightened around the silver pocket watch still resting in my palm.
Vivienne sat on my beige sofa, her legs crossed at the knee. She wore a tailored crimson blazer and a perfectly practiced smile. A porcelain teacup rested on her lap.
"What are you doing in my apartment?" I demanded, staying near the front door.
"Marilyn let me in on her way out," Vivienne said. She set the teacup on the glass coffee table. "She looked terribly upset. She told me you had another one of your episodes. I came to see if you were feeling better."
I stepped fully into the room.
That was when the smell hit me.
Heavy jasmine mixed with crushed vanilla.
My chest seized. A sudden, violent thumping started behind my ribs. My palms turned instantly slick with cold sweat. I backed up a step, my spine hitting the hard wood of the doorframe. I did not know why the scent made my throat close. I just knew I needed to get away from it.
"Open a window," I choked out.
Vivienne raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"The perfume. It is suffocating."
She stood up, smoothing the front of her blazer. "It is imported, Della. You used to compliment it."
"I want you to leave."
She ignored my demand. She walked toward me, her leather flats silent on the rug. The jasmine scent grew stronger, wrapping around my neck like physical hands. My lungs burned. A phantom ache flared at the base of my skull, sharp and blinding.
"You look exhausted," Vivienne murmured. She stopped less than a foot away.
I pressed harder against the doorframe. "Do not touch me."
She reached out anyway. Her manicured fingers brushed against my temple, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear. Her sharp nails scraped my skin.
"You really should take better care of yourself. People are talking."
I swatted her hand away. "I do not care what people say."
"You should. Marilyn is at her wit's end." Vivienne tilted her head, studying my face with a look of mock pity. "She told me about the hired boyfriend. A bit extreme, maybe, but can you blame her? You are setting plates for a ghost."
"Sam is not a ghost."
"He is gone, Dell."
"Get out of my house, Vivienne."
She sighed, a soft, condescending sound. She took a step back, giving me a fraction of breathing room. The phantom ache in my skull dulled, but the rapid beating of my heart refused to slow.
"I just worry about you," she said, picking her leather purse up from the armchair. "Especially with you acting so erratic lately. Chasing strangers around the building."
I stiffened.
"That new neighbor next door sure looks a lot like Sam, doesn't he?" she asked, adjusting the strap on her shoulder.
The air in the room went completely still.
I stared at her glossy lips. My grip on the pocket watch became painful. The jagged edges of the silver casing dug into my palm.
Marilyn did not know what Ryan Vance looked like. She only knew I ran into a man in the hallway. I never told my mother about the identical jawline. I never told her about the cheekbones.
And I definitely never told Vivienne.
"How do you know what the neighbor looks like?" I asked. My voice dropped to a flat, dangerous register.
Vivienne paused. Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second.
"Marilyn mentioned it," she recovered smoothly.
"My mother has never seen him."
"She must have caught a glimpse." Vivienne waved her hand in the air, dismissing the accusation. "Or maybe I saw him in the lobby. Does it matter? The point is, you are projecting your grief onto a random man."
"You were on the eleventh floor before today," I said, stepping away from the doorframe to block her path to the exit. "You were watching my apartment."
"Do not be paranoid, Della. It is entirely unbecoming."
"Answer the question."
"Move out of the doorway," she ordered. The fake sweetness completely vanished from her tone.
I held my ground. "Why do you know what Ryan looks like?"
"Because I have eyes," she snapped. "Because he moved in three days ago, and I happened to be visiting your mother. You are not a detective. You are a sick woman who cannot accept reality."
She shoved past my shoulder.
The heavy jasmine scent washed over me again, bringing another wave of nausea and that blinding flash of pain at the base of my neck.
I stumbled against the wall, fighting the sudden dizziness.
Vivienne reached the front door. She grabbed the brass handle and pulled it open. The cool, stale air of the corridor rushed in, cutting through the perfume. I dragged in a deep breath, steadying myself against the plaster wall.
She stepped out onto the carpeted hallway.
I watched her back, my mind racing. She lied. She was watching Ryan. She knew exactly who he was. And she knew I was getting too close.
Vivienne turned around. She stood in the threshold, her leather purse clutched tight against her side. The sweet, practiced smile returned to her face, stretching her red lips into a perfect, terrifying curve.
"Take your medication, Dell," she said softly.
I glared at her. "Do not come back here."
She ignored my warning. Her eyes drifted past my shoulder, scanning the empty apartment, before settling back on my face.
"By the way, Dell," Vivienne said, her voice dropping to a low, melodic hum. "You should be careful on the stairs lately."
