Goldie jabbed a finger at the ceiling, fortified by too much wine. “What do you mean, no? Do you want me arrested for trespassing? Because I am far too pretty to go to jail. Prison orange clasheshorriblywith my complexion.”
The floorboards shuddered once, sharp and decisive.
Goldie narrowed her eyes. "That felt like ano, we do not want you in jail because you're right about the orangekind of thump."
"Great," Nell said, settling back with her wine like she was preparing for a show. "So, whatdoyou want?"
The curtains stirred though no window was open, a gentle, almost shy movement. A faint pulse ran through the walls, like a heartbeat muffled in plaster and old secrets.
Goldie rubbed her temples. “I don’t know what that means. You’re worse than tarot cards.”
The building's response was distinctly offended—a sharp creak from the crown molding that sounded remarkably like a sniff.
Nell leaned forward, pointing to the French doors that led onto the smallest balcony in her apartment. "Okay, let's make this simple. Those doors areyes."She swung around to gesture at the larger balcony doors. "Those areno.Crystal clear?"
The far-left doors creaked open an inch, then shut again with a polite little click that somehow managed to sound pleased with itself.Yes.
Goldie’s mouth fell open. “Oh, gods. We’re playing Twenty Questions with our sentient apartment building.”
“Believe it or not, this isn’t the weirdest game I’ve ever played,” Nell said dryly.
“I donotneed to know this about your sex life.”
The building gave a soft pulse, like laughter deep in the bones of the floorboards.
“All right,” Nell said briskly, squaring herself to the nearest wall like it was a podium. “Let’s clear some things up. Building! Do you want Goldie to go to jail?”
The far-right French doors opened and shut with a crisp little snap.No.
“Good,” Goldie said. “Excellent baseline agreement.”
“Building! Will you keep Goldie from sleepwalking?” Nell asked.
No.
Goldie sat up straighter. “Excuse me?”
“Do you have a reason for not stopping her?” Nell pressed.
The left doors responded.Yes.
“Why?” Goldie demanded, spreading her hands.
“That’s not a yes-or-no question,” Nell muttered, taking a long swallow of wine. Then she shrugged. “And honestly, I’ve got nothing else right now.”
“You’re giving up already? You are theworstlibrarian ever.”
“Don’t blame me. I studied public relations, not interrogation theory.”
Both sets of French doors slammed open and shut at once, impatient and startling, like the building had just clapped its hands in their faces:Focus, ladies.
Goldie dragged a hand down her face. “Okay. Let’s try this again.” She squinted at the ceiling. “Does my sleepwalking… um… have anything to do with the murder?”
A long pause. Both sets of balcony doors creaked open and shut, hesitant, like a shrug.
Goldie slumped. “So that’s amaybe?It’s complicated?A cosmicI don’t know?”
The left-hand doors snapped once.Yes.
