I jump.
"You gonna open the door, lady?" a man barks out.
I peek through the peephole.
It’s a man in a light brown delivery uniform. He’s holding a parcel in his hands that he lifts as if he feels me watching him. I didn’t order anything. So what is that?
Frowning, I open the door. "Sorry. It's my first time living alone. How did you know I was there?"
He hands me the package and pulls a clipboard from where he’s tucked it under one arm. "Creaky floorboards. Sign here."
“Thanks.” I take the pen he offers me and sign where he points, hand the pen back, and scurry back inside my apartment with the package as he retreats with the clipboard.
"You'll figure it out. And, lady?"
"Yeah?"
"You want to be careful about who you tell that to."
My cheeks burn at how stupid it was to tell a stranger I live alone.
"I have a daughter around your age," he says, face softening. "Be careful, okay?"
"Okay."
The man leaves, and I close the door and study the medium, relatively light package. It’s my apartment address, but it’s not my name.
I hadn’t thought anyone lived in this apartment for weeks, if not months, given how filthy it was when I first arrived. After I'd searched for more roaches, I spent most of yesterday cleaning every surface with bleach.Twice.
I chew my lip as I consider what to do. Then I remember the realtor who showed me around saying I could go to the super on the first floor if I had any problems. Maybe he’ll know what to do with the package. I shouldn’t have accepted it all, but I was so scared about who was knocking, I didn’t think.
Stuffing my feet into my sandals, I grab my keys and head down the stairs to see the super, double-checking that I locked the door first.
I haven’t spoken to any of my neighbors yet, and with the way that guy was shouting yesterday, I’m not sure I want to. I pass a series of closed doors, my nose twitching at the scents of spicycurry and herby smoke on my way to reach the first floor. There’s an elevator, but the realtor said it didn’t work.
The super’s door is easy to find. A sign on the door saysSuper, on the first floor of the old apartment building that, in the bright early morning, seems older and more rundown than when I viewed it. A TV is on way louder than it needs to be, and even though it’s the morning, it smells of Chinese food.
I knock on my super’s door.
“What?” a man calls out, his annoyance loud and clear.
I clear my throat and reach for the politeness I learned at Haven Academy. “I have a package. It came to my apartment, but it’s not mine. I thought maybe it belonged to the old…” My voice trails off when someone wrenches the door open.
The super, a grizzled-looking dark-haired man in his fifties, dressed in dark blue overalls, flicks tired gray eyes from me to the package, snatches it out of my hands and slams the door in my face.
I stumble backward, my hair blowing into my face from the force of his slam. I stare, stunned into silence by his rudeness.
What the hell?
Pressing my ear to the door, I hear the unmistakable sounds of someone tearing the brown paper-wrapped package open.
It had a woman’s name on it.Felicia Monroe.The super had a patch sewn on the front pocket of his overalls that said Bill. I frown, my eyebrows drawing together. He shouldn’t be opening mail that doesn’t belong to him.
With my back stiffening, I knock firmly on the door.
Two seconds later, the super wrenches it open.
Over his right shoulder, I spot the parcel on his coffee table. It’s open. I can’t see what it contained because he steps to the right, blocking my view.
