Chapter 6
Zoey
Movingday should have been stressful with all the cardboard, tape, and hired strangers touching my things, but it wasn’t. I felt strangely… fine.
I absolutely did not think about Liam.
Because when I did, something in my chest dipped in an irritating direction. Just a brief, dull note of something that felt too uncomfortable to name.
So, I didn’t do that.
The movers had finished earlier than promised, which I distrusted on principle. I stood alone in the new place, surrounded by stacks of boxes labeled in thick black marker. KITCHEN. BOOKS. CLOSET. MISC. A threat.
The apartment was amazing. One open main room with the living area at the center, the kitchen off to one side, and a sliding glass door at the back that looked out over the small balcony. Off the living room, through a wide, open threshold that had probably once been intended as a dining nook or tiny library, sat the space I had immediately assigned to Markie.
His enclosure was set up by the window there, giving him a clear view into the living room and, seemingly, a strong sense that monitoring my life was part of his job description.A short hallway led to the bedroom and bathroom. Boxes were everywhere, but the bones of the place were good. And it was mine.
Before I opened a single box, I did a quick pass through the apartment. I always did it in a new place, checking locks, windows, exit routes, the smoke detectors. Hurrying downstairs and outside, I slipped the spare key into its emergency hiding spot outside by the drainage spout, tucked under the loose stone I had already decided looked the most trustworthy. It wasn’t glamorous, but neither was being locked out in leggings with melting ice cream.
Once I had done everything necessary to convince my nervous system we were not about to die or be inconvenienced in a preventable way, I returned to the boxes.
I tugged one box toward the sliding door and frowned. OUTDOOR. That was not supposed to be inside. That box held dirt-adjacent objects. Having it in the house violated several personal rules.
Squatting, I dragged it across the floor, the cardboard rasping in protest.
“Hi!”
I screamed.
Not a dignified scream. Not a cool scream. A sharp, full-body noise that left my mouth before my pride could intervene.
I spun and nearly took out a lamp.
A small girl stood behind me. Helmet strapped under her chin. Backpack on her chest. Big grin. Unbothered by the near-death experience.
“Sorry,” she said. “I forget adults don’t expect visitors.”
“You cannot just appear in someone else’s home,” I said. “That’s illegal.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll work on that.” She stuck out a hand. “I’m Bobbi.”
I looked at the hand. Then at her. Then at the window behind her.
Markie, my pet parrot, screeched behind me.
I yelped and nearly dropped the box.
“Oh!” Bobbi squealed. “Bird.”
I pressed a hand to my chest. “He is not a bird. He’s a heart attack waiting to happen.”
The cage by the window rattled. Markie flared his wings and screamed again, feathers lifted, focus locked on the stranger in my living room.
Bobbi turned slowly. “That is a very large parrot.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s Markie.”
He chose that moment to escalate, letting out a long scream.
