Okay, it’s clear, I tell myself. Now it’s time to go because I understand that what I’m doing is not quite sane. Ever since Emma quit, I’ve been behaving out of character.
Before I reverse out of the lot, I look up at the apartment building, wondering which one is hers.
And that’s when I really look at it. And the surroundings.
It’s dark, so it’s hard to make out the details clearly. Shadows take up much of the parking lot. A loud bang reverberates, and two men walk past my car, laughing and carrying brown bags from the liquor store on the corner.
I look around with more discerning eyes. I’m used to most places being shabbier than the spaces I inhabit. The average person with the average job doesn’t live in a mansion or a penthouse.
But this is different.
Emma’s supposed apartment is a building inspector’s nightmare. The wooden structure and peeling paint seem as if they would come crumbling down in a slight wind. There are narrow and precarious-looking balconies fronting each apartment. Some have laundry lines with clothes hanging, others have plants in varying stages of life, and a few have furniture squeezed onto the small space.
Could any of those units be Em’s?
I pull out my phone and double-check the address. Then I double-check my GPS. They both say this is the right place. Butthis can’t be her building. I can’t imagine why she’d live here. I’m sure Emma can afford something nice with the amount I pay her. She’s paid above any other assistant in LA. And I give her a generous raise every year.
A child cries in the distance. And what could be a drug dealer stands on the corner of the street, looking shifty.
Iwasplanning on leaving, but I can’t now. I have to get to the bottom of this. There’s got to be some kind of mistake.
A sense of deep unease fills my stomach as I make my way up the cement steps to the fourth floor because the elevator is out of order. I walk down a dark hall with stained wallpaper and an old carpet that smells like mold, hearing the sounds of life from behind the door of each apartment I pass. Arguments, laughter, music, television.
And then I’m at her number—412.
I knock, sure that someone else will answer.
The door swings open. It’s Emma.
I’m off-kilter, winded, and not because of the flights of stairs I just climbed.
This moment feels heavy. Important.
Emma stands before me. Her big blue eyes are wide with shock. She’s in a sleek black dress that skims her curves to perfection, an outfit she put on for Simon Reeves, I think darkly. Her hair is up in a familiar chignon. Her makeup is perfect. She looks… elegant. Put together. Expensive.
The opposite of her surroundings.
“W-what are you doing here, Sebastian?”
“Can I come in?” I ask, not wanting to talk in this dingy hallway.
Her face shutters, and her soft, parted mouth firms. There’s something bleak in her eyes. Something like resignation.
Silently, she moves aside, and without a word…
I step into her world.
“Why are you here?”she repeats.
“I could ask you the same question.”
“I live here,” she says flatly.
“Why?” I ask, looking around.
Unlike the outside of her place, inside, everything is orderly, with a precision I expect from Emma. This at least feels like her. The living room is cramped but tastefully decorated, and the paint on the walls looks fresh. The couch is a deep indigo, soft and inviting, with throw pillows in various shades of cream. There’s a small desk, chair, and bookshelf in a little alcove between the living room and kitchen. A small wooden café table is in the corner next to a window, just barely fitting two clear plastic chairs. Photos I recognize of Paris and London, Berlin and Cannes, and other cities we’ve visited together decorate the walls. There are framed pictures of both her and Sadie at various ages, along with her dad and another woman I don’t recognize.
I want to take a step toward the pictures and peer closer, soak in my impression of Emma as a child, analyze the ways she’s changed. I want to smile at the framed inspirational quotes she loves that are intermixed with the photos. Those quotes are so intrinsically Emma that it makes my heart squeeze.
