Elsewhere in the apartment, we hear a crash. Felix and I stare at each other in mute terror. Did someone else decide to break in at the same time?
When we tiptoe out of the office and peek around the corner into the living room, my shoulders slump with relief. It’s Claude’s cat, staring at the remains of a potted succulent as if she has no idea how it managed to leap off the counter with no assistance whatsoever from her paw.
“Zenobia,” Felix calls, and the cat jumps down and runs over to butt her head against our shins and snake around our legs in a purring figure eight.
“Good kitty, but we have to go,” I tell her, with a final pat. She runs to the door like she understands the words. Claude always said she was a genius.
Unfortunately, now she’s scratching at the paint and yowling. “I think she wants her afternoon stroll,” I tell Felix, with a pang of sadness at the memory of Claude and his cat on their daily ramble around the building, usually with coordinating accessories. His sister has probably been too busy hatching plots to take Zenobia anywhere.
“Is it that late?” Felix tucks the rolled-up plans under his arm before digging his phone out of his pocket. His whole body stiffens. “She’s coming back.”
“What?”
He shows me the screen. “Sofia texted a few minutes ago.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I had it on Do Not Disturb! We were in stealth mode.”
“I thought she said it would go on for at least an hour!”
“I guess Bernie forgot something.” Felix is looking around the room wildly, like the news short-circuited his brain.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Too late.” He nods at Zenobia, who is now stretching up on her hind legs to scratch the doorknob. “She’s on her way up.”
I run through everything I know about Claude’s apartmentin a millisecond as I grab him by the hand that isn’t holding Bernie’s papers. We hurry past the dining nook and through the galley kitchen until we reach the slatted doors of the narrow broom closet. Praying she hasn’t returned to dust her knickknacks, I drag Felix inside with me, easing the accordion door closed just as a key rattles in the lock.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWOTHE BODY IN THE BROOM CLOSET
I try to take a step back to give Felix space and feel something shift behind me as my shoulder makes contact.
It’s a handle.
The thought flashes in my mind like a siren, and I brace for the clatter of a mop falling over. By some miracle, Felix manages to grab it in time, one arm reaching behind me while the other snakes around my waist, pulling me closer before I can bump into anything else. All those group dance numbers must have sharpened his reflexes.
For a few seconds, I’m too frazzled to breathe. It’s just as well, considering Felix is going to feel every exhale. Congratulations to me on making the situation a thousand times more tense! Now I have to choose between repeating the same rookie mistake and staying adhered to the front of his shirt.
It’s a tougher decision than you’d think, until I recall that Felix has something in his hand. Not because I can see it—it’s dark in here, and his arm is basically wrapped around mywaist—but the shape is pressing against my spine. He’s still holding the blueprints. If I move more than an inch or two, there will be major crinkling. Since the only prospect more dreadful than getting caught in this apartment is getting caught in this apartment with a top secret drawing of the Bernie Dream House, I will be staying where I am.
The front door slams. I guess there’s no need to be gentle with the aging hardware if you’re planning to tear the whole place down. Claude’s carpet is too thick to track footsteps, but we can follow his sister’s progress by the stream of nonsense she spouts at the cat.
“I know,” she baby talks. “It’s boring when Mama goes out and leaves you all alone in this dump. Not much longer now, angel baby.”
Zenobia yowls in response. I wonder if she’s objecting to this characterization of her home or the insipid nickname.
Don’t go into the office, I think at Bernie. We definitely didn’t hide all traces of our presence there. Maybe she’ll blame it on Zenobia—
Ohcrap. What if she decides to clean up the broken pot on the floor? The first thing she’ll go for is a dustpan, which is almost certainly in this closet. Either Felix can feel my heart rate kick into a higher gear or I’m starting to pant, because he leans his forehead against mine.
It’s better than ashhhhbecause I am immediately distracted. The spotlight in my brain shifts from freaking out to Felix. Maybe he’s not just comforting me or reminding me to be quiet. All the clues I’ve collected since our first meetingseemto be pointing in a certain direction, but I know the dangers of getting too attached to an unsupported hypothesis.
I couldtestthe theory—my eyes squeeze shut in a cringeI’m sure he can feel. What is wrong with me? We’re not playing a middle school party game. All my attention belongs on the situation outside this closet. And yet…
Hopefully Felix attributes the muscle spasm in my face to Bernie’s change in direction. It sounded like she was detouring for the kitchen, until she murmured something to Zenobia about “freshening up.”
Maybe that’s code for going to the bathroom. She seems like the type who would use cutesy euphemisms for bodily functions, because saying the word “pee” is definitely worse than scheming to steal someone’s home.
