Page 94 of The New Couple in 5B

“We start the table reading tomorrow,” he continues. “Are you going to be all right on your own?”

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Everything’s fine.”

twenty-eight

Harsh and insistent, the buzzer wrests me from sleep. I fumble for my phone, screen filled with message bubbles.

It’s ten.

Shit. The room is still dim with the blinds pulled. It’s been days since Xavier’s death and Detective Crowe’s visit, and my miscarriage. The slim bottle of antidepressants Dr. Black prescribed sits by the bathroom sink, untouched, waiting like a good soldier. Chad’s been gone since the day before yesterday. And I’ve barely moved.

The buzzer. It won’t stop.

I pad into the hallway wearing Chad’s oversize T-shirt and press the button. “Whatis it, Abi?”

I can barely be civil to him after everything that’s happened.

“You have a visitor, Ms. Lowan,” he says, ever polite and professional, even though he must know that I’m the reason the police questioned him, poor, hardworking Abi, who takes care of his elderly mother.

“A Mr. Maxwell Collins.”

“Excuse me, can I talk to her, please?” Max’s voice comes over the intercom. “Rosie, let me up.”

I sigh. “Okay, Abi, bring him up, please.”

I run into the bedroom to pull on some jeans, drag a brush through my hair, shut the door to my office, which is a chaos of notes from my research and photos spread out all over—and which I haven’t touched or looked at or thought about in days. Nor have I answered an email from my new editor—a twenty-something, I’m assuming, named Sebastian of all things. I googled him; he’s edited precisely nothing, just very recently promoted from assistant to editor in the new shift around at the company. I have an interview with Arthur Alpern scheduled for this afternoon, which I was planning on canceling.

When I open the door, Max is standing there, getting ready to knock, his hand risen. Abi has already left. Max gives me this kind, loving, sympathetic look and I rush in to hug him; he holds me tight, and we stand there awhile; I don’t know how long.

“Chad called me,” he says. “He’s worried about you. He can’t focus unless he knows you’re okay.”

Chad is upstate in the town where they’ll be filming his new series—The Hollows, the place that inspired the story. There’s an energy vortex up there, according to Chad, and it’s home to all kinds of strange happenings and a community of psychics. Which intrigues me, or would, under other circumstances. I’m supposed to meet him this weekend, but I don’t even have the energy to leave the apartment, let alone get on a train.

Max and I head inside, and I walk him into the kitchen where I’ve determined Abi can’t hear me because it’s around two corners. And I tell him everything—about Xavier, Detective Crowe’s visit, how he knew about Chad’s past, the deleted chat room entry on the Windermere website, astrology night, Abi’s secret room, how I haven’t worked on my book in days.

It feels like a purge, and when I’m done there’s a sense of release. Max leans against the counter, regarding me worriedly through his thick glasses. He looks around. It’s kind of a mess with dishes piled in the stainless-steel sink; the marble counters need wiping; the scent of coffee left too long in the pot wafts on the air. The space is tiny, little more than a galley, wood cabinets in need of refinishing, tile floor begging to be updated.

“Why are we in the kitchen, Rosie?” he asks, edging toward the door.

I’m embarrassed to tell him, look down at my bare feet.

“Rosie?”

“Because he can’t hear us in here.”

That worried frown deepens.

“Abi,” I whisper. “Over the intercom.”

“Do you think he’slisteningto you?” he asks gently. Always the editor, skeptical, searching.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “I know he did something with that box and I think he stole the letter—who else, right? Dana told me not to trust anyone. And now Dana is dead. I spoke to Xavier about him by the service elevator and now Xavier is dead.”

I expect for him, hope, that he’s going to wave me off, offer some smart reason why I’m overreacting. Instead, he offers a careful nod. “Thatisweird.”

I notice the deep circles under his eyes then, stubble on his jaw. He’s rumpled—Bauhaus T-shirt wrinkled, jeans torn, leather jacket scuffed. He’s got his own problems and here he is wrapped up in mine. Still, I go on.

“Detective Crowe made Abi sound like a model citizen, implied that I was the one with the problem.”

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