I know.
I built the shelf at the bottom of those stairs.Hung the utility light.Helped Emily paint the walls that one weekend when she decided the basement should be “cozy” and I decided not to argue.
Marin opens the door and leads me down.She goes first—quick, deliberate, like she’s clearing a path.She doesn’t look back to check if I’m following.She knows I’m following.Something about that confidence, the way she just assumes I’m behind her, makes my chest tight in a way I’m not ready for.
The basement looks different.Cleared out.The old shelving unit is gone, storage boxes pushed to one corner.There’s a folding table against the far wall with a laptop on it, closed.A chair.A lamp that doesn’t match anything.It looks staged.Like someone dressed a set in a hurry and hoped the lighting would sell it.
“This is where you take client calls?”I say.
“It will be.Once it doesn’t sound like I’m broadcasting from inside a submarine.”
I walk the perimeter, knocking on walls.Concrete block on three sides, drywall on the fourth.The ceiling is open joists—every sound upstairs would come through clean.Going the other direction, too.
“It’s never going to be perfect,” I say.“But acoustic panels on the walls— foam, not fabric will help.Weatherstrip the door, caulk the gaps.Won’t make it a recording studio, but it’ll kill some of the sound going in or out.”
“How long will that take?”
“A day.Maybe less.”
“Today?”
That urgency again.Leaking through the composure like water through a crack she keeps spackling over.She wants this done the way you want a door locked—not eventually, now.
“I’d need to pick up materials.”
“So—tomorrow?”
Her expression is so hopeful I say the only thing that makes sense, even though it’s going to mean pushing another job out.“Tomorrow.”
She nods.Quick.Satisfied.Already three items ahead on whatever list is running behind her eyes.
Her phone buzzes on the folding table.She glances at the screen and something crosses her face—fast, gone before I can name it.Not fear.Not surprise.Something closer to calculation.
“I have to take this,” she says.Already moving toward the stairs.Already deciding I don’t get to hear it.
I don’t say anything.She doesn’t give me a chance.
She takes the stairs two at a time, bad ankle and all.The basement door closes behind her.Not a slam.Just a firm, deliberate click.
I stand there, tape measure in hand, listening to her muffled voice above me.Can’t make out the words.Just the rhythm—fast, clipped, the voice of someone putting out a fire.
The ceiling creaks as she paces.
I shouldn’t be listening.
I can’t stop.
18
Marin
Islam the basement door behind me and answer on the third ring.
“Marin?”
Julia.Mid-level TV actress.Minor Botox addiction.Major trust issues.Also the closest thing I have to a sure bet right now, which tells you everything about the state of my sure bets.
“Julia, hi—sorry, I had someone here.Contractor.The house is gorgeous but it’s a project.You know me, I don’t do anything small.”
