Page 73 of The Accident

Evan makes a note on his phone, then gestures toward the hall. “Can I see the rest?”

I nod, and walk ahead, keeping a full three steps between us. We move through the guest rooms—each staged but obviously unused, the pillows still creased from being delivered in plastic bags. The media room, which is a shrine to European soccer and vintage James Bond movies. The private office, which Trevor uses for Zoom calls with his business cronies. It’s a whirlwind tour, with me talking so fast that the words must be garbled, but Evan doesn’t comment. We end at the balcony, where the blonde man takes a long moment to look out over the city grid, the streets already shimmering with late-morning heat.

He leans on the railing, elbows set just so, and turns to look at me. The light off the buildings bounces into his eyes and makes them even bluer than before.

“So tell me,” he says, and his voice is a full octave softer, “what’s it like working for Trevor? You seem… comfortable.”

I stifle a laugh, mostly out of self-defense. “He’s demanding, but fair. He likes things the way he likes them, but he’s not a psycho about it.”

Evan nods. “He’s lucky. I haven’t met many assistants with your attitude.”

He says the word “assistant” with a little catch, and for a second, I think he’s going to press for details. Instead, he watches me with that same steady, not-quite-smiling expression.

“Do you like it here, Kayleigh?” he asks, and the question feels both easy and pointed.

I take a breath. “It’s certainly better than my old place.”

He tilts his head, inviting me to elaborate.

I don’t.

He lets the silence build, then straightens. “Well, Mr. Cahill’s done an excellent job of staging and artwork. It’ll show beautifully.”

The compliment feels genuine, but also like it’s hiding something else. I thank him, then gesture back to the front of the apartment. “If you need to measure anything, or take pictures, I’ll just be in the kitchen. I have a call in ten minutes.”

He nods, takes one more look around, then heads for the door. I follow, resisting the urge to watch him walk. He moves with the economy of someone who never wastes energy.

At the foyer, he turns and pulls a card from his portfolio, holding it out to me. The card is heavy, matte, embossed with his name in silver.

“Here,” he says, voice a little lower than before. “I still have your number from that night, but this is just in case. I’ll be in touch about the listing.”

His fingers graze mine as I take the card. The contact is brief, but electric—enough to make me shiver in the AC.

“Thanks,” I say, and my voice is barely above a whisper.

He gives me one last smile, then slips out into the hallway, the door hissing shut behind him.

I stand in the entryway, card in hand, staring at the spot where Evan just stood. My pulse is going way too fast, and it’s not for the reasons I thought it would be. It’s not the fear of the unknown, or the awkwardness of our interaction. It’s the sense that something just changed, and I have no idea what happened, or what to do about it.

I walk to the kitchen, sink onto a stool, and run my fingers over the edge of Evan’s business card. The number is embossed, the surface almost soft to the touch.

I tuck the card into my pocket, pour myself another cup of coffee, and stare out at the city below.

Trevor will be home in a few hours.

Hopefully, he doesn’t blow a gasket when he finds out who was just here.

But somehow, I have a feeling he will.

26

TROUBLE IN PARADISE

Trevor

Ilet the door close behind me, slow, letting the soft click ring out in the hush of the entry. The hallway is all glass and shadow at this hour, the long rug lit up only at the edges by a scatter of lamps Kayleigh must have set to “cozy” mode. My hands are full — keys, phone, a folder with the day’s contract notes — but what I’m really carrying is the day itself, a pulse of stress that starts at the base of my skull and works all the way down to my knuckles.

But the moment I step into the open space of the main room, the air changes. There’s music on, low, the kind of playlist that’s all cellos and minor chords. The kitchen glows gold, haloed by under-cabinet LEDs, and in the center of it is Kayleigh, back to me, stirring something in a heavy saucepan.