“More,” I say. “This is helping.” And I mean it.
She tilts her head, then smiles a little. “Okay…you know Ms. Whittle in 2A?”
“Yeah,” I nod, focusing on the cadence of her voice, the way it grounds me while she keeps her eyes on the road.
“Well, I have a suspicion she’s got a thing for Mr. Jones in 3B.” She lets it hang there, waiting.
It works.
The tension in my shoulders eases, just a little.
“Really?” I tilt my head. “I’ve never seen them together.”
“I have,” Hannah sings, smug. “They were at a café together last week. Outside table. I walked by, then did a double take when I realized who it was.”
“What were they doing?”
“Just talking,” she says, then lifts her eyebrows. “But they were sittingveryclose. Like knees-almost-touching close.”
I huff out a laugh before I can stop myself.
It feels…better. The fear eases a few more notches.
“No way,” I say, remembering my monitors. The cameras. “They don’t go to each other’s apartments. I barely see them together.”
She frowns. “How would you know? You never leave your place.”
Shit.
“That’s not true,” I say quickly. “Maybe I come out when you’re at work.”
“You don’t,” she says, far too confidently.
Now I’m defensive, which, oddly enough, helps even more.
“You can’t know that,” I argue. “You’re not there.”
She snorts. “I talked to the other tenants.”
I blink. “You…talked about me? Like you all had some secret building-wide meeting and didn’t invite me?”
Her cheeks flush pink in the dashboard glow. “Not like that. I just…asked around when I first moved in.”
My chest does something stupid.
“Oh?” I lean forward, one elbow braced on my knee, which has finally stopped bouncing. “What did they say?”
She keeps her eyes on the road. “That you’re quiet. Polite. Mysterious.”
“Mysterious,” I repeat solemnly. I pause, then say, “I’ll take it.”
She flicks me a look. “Don’t.”
“Too late.” A grin tugs at my mouth. “It’s absolutely going to my head.”
She huffs and rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. Really smiling.
“What else did they say about me?” I ask, genuinely curious.
