“Humble and…perfect, MJ.” He took a few steps into the room, first gazing out the picture window that looked out over the mountains. It was dark, but the snowy peaks were awash in the yellow light of a full moon. “It’s so cozy and comfortable.”
“Well, no media room or walk-in closet or any of the other bells and whistles your real estate agent loves so much.”
“My real estate agent, but not me.” He paused at a bookshelf, scanning her collection of cookbooks, novels, and a few self-help books on grief.
She watched him take it all in, glancing at her kitchenette with a table for two tucked into the corner. It was all she needed with the glorious kitchen she now had downstairs.
Wandering to the other side, he peeked into her bedroom. The nightlight illuminated her bed, the nightstand with water and some framed pictures, her dresser with a jewelry box and some personal items.
It all felt very intimate for him to see, but he didn’t go into the room. Instead, he kissed her on the nose.
“Go get some sleep, beautiful. Grab me a pillow and blanket and let me start a fire and I’ll be right there.” He gestured toward the sofa in the living room. “Listening.”
After she got him squared away, she slipped into her bedroom but left the door open. She crawled under the covers, and let her tired eyes flutter closed. For the first time in weeks, her chest didn’t feel tight with dread.
As she drifted toward sleep, she could hear the faint creak of the sofa as he turned over, then a soft sigh and the rustle of his pillowcase.
His presence filled the little apartment with a sense of safety she hadn’t realized she’d been craving.
“I’m sorry, George,” she mouthed in the dark, tears stinging. “I love him.”
No one answered, but she folded the admission into her heart and finally fell asleep.
The sound yankedher awake like an insistent hand shaking her shoulder.
The familiar melodyplayed—well, beeped—in its usual muffled way, as if someone were playing it through a pillow, but distinct enough that her heart did that awful, familiar lurch.
MJ blinked into the dark, disoriented for a few seconds by the fact that she didn’t feel alone. The apartment wasn’t empty.
The living room lights came on—all of them, including the overheads—but she didn’t move yet. She stayed long enough to hear the music play through the second of four measures of the familiar song, gentle and maddeningly exact in its timing.
She swallowed hard, then pushed herself upright. Her legs were heavy with sleep, but her nerves snapped awake. She slipped on her robe and tiptoed barefoot out of the bedroom.
Matt was already up, still in his hoodie and sleep pants, hair rumpled, moving around the space like a focused bloodhound. He had one cushion off the sofa, his head cocked as he listened to the music.
Relief almost buckled her knees.
“You hear it,” she whispered.
He turned, his eyes clear and awake. “Loud and clear.”
“Actually, soft and muted.”
“True…” He stood perfectly still and narrowed his eyes, turning slowly…slowly…trying to follow the sound as she had so, so many times.
“It’ll stop in a second,” she said. “Four times through the melody.”
“Then I need to move quickly.” He walked toward the fireplace, leaning down as if he were listening to the actual floorboards. “Do any of these come up? Secret hiding place?”
“Not that I know of, but honestly? I’ve never checked.”
“You test the floorboards and I will…” He got closer to the fireplace. “Is this new?” he asked, indicating the mantel and stone around it.
“Everything is new. The space was here, but it was an unfinished attic that my grandfather once used as a workshop. We gutted it and transformed it into this apartment.”
He nodded, leaning toward the fireplace. “It’s coming from over here.”
She couldn’t disagree—it did sound like that part of the room. Giving up on the floorboards, she followed him, her robe pulled tight around her like armor.
