RUBY
The bass pulses through the walls as I step out of the shower, the rhythm becoming impossible to ignore. God knows I’ve tried, but after two years of silence in this house, the nightly intrusion feels like sandpaper against raw nerves. When did this start? Two, three weeks ago? And only Thursday to Sunday. The consistency is maddening, like clockwork, like she’s teaching midnight dance classes or something.
Water drips onto the cold marble floor. I keep forgetting to turn on the underfloor heating; it was one of the many luxuries Claire insisted on when she designed this bathroom. “You’ll thank me in winter,” she’d said, but now the control panel stays dark, along with the settings for the steam shower I use only for its basic function.I can’t even bring myself to figure out how it works.
The walk-in closet still smells faintly of her perfume. Jo Malone London—Pomegranate Noir. I ordered a bottle after she passed, just to torture myself. It’s hidden behind my row of dry cleaning and I spray it now and then. Her side remains untouched—an archeological record of thewoman who used to share my life. Tailored blazers in jewel tones, the vintage band T-shirts she slept in, her favorite worn leather boots. The dress she was wearing when we met, emerald silk that matched my eyes. “It was a sign,” she used to joke. “I had to talk to the gorgeous redhead in Valentino.”
I dress—silk pajama pants, a thin cashmere sweater. The desert nights can get cold, even when the days are scorching. The sweater was a gift from her too—“Because you’re always cold in your office, honey.” She was always thinking ahead, planning for my comfort, our joint life, while I was planning mergers.
The house creaks and settles around me, five thousand square feet of empty space, of memories trapped in corners, of life interrupted. Each room holds a different version of the future we planned. The library upstairs, where Claire was going to write the novel she always talked about. The guest room we were going to turn into a nursery someday. The garden she started designing, desert-hardy plants that would bloom year-round.
The music from next door grows louder, pulling me from my thoughts. I head to my office that overlooks my neighbor’s estate, and through the window, I watch an Aston Martin pull into the circular drive of the Stavros mansion. My gaze catches on the line of vehicles already parked there—four identical limousines. How had I never noticed them before? I suppose I’d never had a reason to concern myself with my neighbor’s comings and goings until this incessant noise started.
Athena Stavros moved in about fifteen months ago, taking the last and by far the biggest mansion on this stretch of The Ridges where her property backs up against the desert. With no neighbors on her other side, she probablyhas no idea the sound carries this far. I vaguely remember some construction noise when she first moved in, but nothing since. Then again, what do I know about the daily rhythms of this neighborhood? I’m rarely home before midnight, and when I am, I’m locked in my office.
The owner herself steps out, and for a moment, I’m struck by the scene’s cinematic quality. Ms. Stavros could have walked straight off a mob movie set—the white jumpsuit with open back, dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders, even a white, wide-brimmed hat tilted at just the right angle to shadow her face. She moves with the kind of fluid confidence that comes from knowing you own not just the ground you walk on, but the whole damn block. Aren’t all casino owners just glamorous crooks? There’s something almost predatory about her movements, like a panther in silk, that makes my legal instincts prickle.
Before I can stop myself, I push open the window. “Ms. Stavros!” My voice carries across the lawn between our houses. “I’m sorry, but the music?—”
She looks up, startled. “Ms. Walsh?” A pause, then understanding crosses her features. “Oh God, can you hear that? I’m so sorry. I recently had a new sound system installed. I had no idea you could hear that.”
“I can only hear the bass, but it’s rather…persistent,” I say.
“I truly apologize. Just give me one moment.” Athena pulls her phone from her purse and taps rapidly across the screen.
The bass cuts off mid-beat, leaving a sudden vacuum of sound. I hadn’t realized how much the music had been pressing against my skull until it was gone. The night settles back into desert silence—crickets, a distant coyote, the whisper of palm fronds.
“Can you still hear it?” Athena calls up.
“No, it’s quiet now, thank you.” The tension in my shoulders starts to unwind.
She smiles. “I feel terrible about this. Please, let me make it up to you. Perhaps dinner?”
“That’s not necessary,” I say quickly, too quickly maybe. “Just the quiet is enough.”
She nods, accepting my refusal. “Of course, Ms. Walsh. Have a good night.”
As I’m about to close my window, the crunch of tires on gravel catches my attention. Another limousine glides up the circular drive, its black paint gleaming under the security lights. It’s identical to the other three already parked there—same model, same tint. Not your typical Vegas limo company’s garish fleet, but something far more exclusive.
I should turn away, go to bed—God knows I need the sleep—but something holds me in place. Maybe it’s the way Athena’s posture changes, becomes more alert, more focused, as she turns toward the vehicle.
She bends down to speak to someone in the back seat. The exchange takes longer than a simple greeting should, and I lean forward slightly, straining to catch a glimpse of the mysterious passenger. When the door finally opens, a figure emerges—definitely a woman, given the stilettos and the flash of bare legs below a cocktail dress, but she’s holding a blazer over her head, the fabric obscuring her face from my view.
Athena’s hand finds the small of the woman’s back, guiding her toward the house. The woman’s steps are hurried, and everything about the scene screams discretion, secrecy, the kind of midnight arrival that awakens something I thought I’d buried in work and grief—curiosity about another person’s life. There’s something intriguing aboutthe choreography of it all, the way Athena shields the woman from view.
Just before they reach the door, Athena glances over her shoulder, her gaze sweeping upward toward my window. I step back quickly, heart suddenly racing, feeling like I’ve been caught prying into something I shouldn’t have seen. My bare feet catch on the rug as I retreat, and I nearly stumble in my haste to get out of sight. By the time I’ve turned off the lights and dare another peek, they’ve disappeared inside, leaving only the line of luxury vehicles as evidence that anything unusual is happening.
I close my window, oddly unsettled. Not because I care about what’s happening next door but because I was caught watching. That’s not me. I don’t peer through windows like some bored housewife seeking suburban drama. I don’t spy on neighbors. I certainly don’t stand in my office in pajamas gawking at midnight arrivals.
My hand lingers on the window latch, and I still feel it—that flutter of interest, of engagement with the world beyond my fortress. It’s small, barely a ripple in the numbness I’ve cultivated, but it’s there. Like a muscle twitching after too long in one position, almost painful in its awakening. I’m not sure if that’s progress or trouble.
FOUR
ATHENA
The sunrise paints the desert mountains gold as I complete my daily swim. Fifty laps, no more, no less. Discipline is everything. The pool stretches along the eastern edge of my property, its infinity edge blending into the valley below. From here, I can see the top floor of my neighbor’s house. She’s up early for a Sunday. Ruby Walsh never sleeps, it seems, but then neither do I. A coffee cup sits on a table behind the railing of her sweeping balcony and the door is wide open. She comes out sometimes, in the darkest part of night, and just sits there.
Two weeks have passed since our exchange about the music, and she hasn’t raised the issue again. I take that as confirmation that my sound engineer’s adjustments have contained the bass to acceptable levels. Still, that brief interaction changed something. Ruby Walsh is no longer just the shadow next door. She’s become real to me.
