Nora stared at me. “Since when do you lead with anything?”
“Fair.” I reached for a glass, didn’t need it, and put it back. “There may also have been a key involved.”
She didn’t move. “A key?”
“A spare key,” I said. “One of mine that's now in his possession. Temporarily. Or maybe indefinitely. We’re still workshopping the terms.”
She looked at the screen again, then back at me.
"How?"
“Walked into his condo like I lived there. Confident, committed, and full of immediate regret.”
Nora blinked. “You broke into your neighbor’s place?”
“The door was open,” I said. “Wrong door situation.”
"Sullivan."
"The numbers are small and the handles are identical—"
She took the bottle and went back to the floor, shaking her head.
The game started again. Someone wound up from the left circle—low, hard, going for the short side—and Pratt moved instantly. The save landed without drama.
A few people at the bar looked up. The bachelorette party didn't notice.
I watched the replay. Watched it again when the broadcast ran it a second time. I thought about my spare key in his hand.
The broadcast moved on. The bar needed me, but I looked up one more time before the period ended.
By closing time, the bar was down to its last-hour population: three regulars at the far end who needed nothing except drinks.
The Ironhawks had won by two. The post-game desk filled the screen. It was two analysts talking over a graphic aboutsave percentage that I understood the way I understood most advanced statistics, which was not at all.
Nora refilled her coffee at the service end and leaned back against the bar. It was forty minutes until closing. The room exhaled.
She looked at the TV. "Okay," she said. "I've been patient."
"You've been working."
"Patiently." Both hands gripped the coffee mug. "The door situation. Walk me through it."
I gave her the condensed version—wrong condo, accidental introduction, wine as a reasonable apology, and my key offer. I didn't embellish and kept it factual. Nora had a finely tuned internal meter for bs.
She listened all the way through. "So he has your spare."
"Yes."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Practical arrangement," I said. "My auto-lock has a well-documented—"
"I have received calls from that hallway," she said. "At midnight on a Tuesday. That is not what I'm asking about."
I took a glass off the drying rack and held it to the light. "He's my neighbor. It's a logical solution to a recurring problem."
"Sullivan."
