Page 7 of The Serendipity

“Second floor,” she supplies.

“Okay. So, you walked into your closet on the second floor. And then you found yourself here, inmycloset, which is on thefourthfloor?”

“Yes.”

I pause again, giving her plenty of time to hear how absurd this sounds and come up with some other kind of explanation. Or perhaps come clean and tell me the truth.

“Unexplained things can happen. Theydohappen,” she says, but she sounds like she’s trying to convince herself—and failing. Then she straightens and snaps her finger. “What’s the branch of science dealing with wormholes?”

“I believe that’s sciencefiction.”

“This isn’t fiction. It happened,” she insists, sounding more firm now. “I may not be able to explain the physics ofhow, but it did.” She glares. “And I’m not crazy.”

“I would never presume to diagnose someone else’s mental health issues for them.”

“I don’thavemental health issues. Not that there should be a stigma against anyone who does,” she adds quickly. “But my mental health has nothing to do with… this.” She gestures to the closet behind her.

“Again, I’m not jumping to any conclusions or making a judgment”—I absolutely am—“but I simply need you to consider the plausibility of what you’re saying.” I use the most reasonable tone I can muster for this absurd conversation. “Put yourself in my shoes.”

She glances down at my Tom Ford oxfords. “From the look of it, I couldn’t afford your shoes.”

I pointedly stare at her bare feet. Then rip my gaze away when it starts to move up her likewise bare legs. I’m not sure how I didn’t notice the moment she stood up, but she appears to be wearing some kind of silky blue pajama set. Withveryshort shorts.

Why are we having this discussion, anyway?

What I need is to get this Willow person out of my apartment and my personal space. And then to change the locks.

“In case you’re worried, I’m not going to press charges,” I tell her, gesturing toward the bedroom door, hoping she’ll take the hint and walk through it.

She doesn’t. Her eyes narrow. “Press charges forwhat?”

“Breaking and entering. Trespassing.”

I could also see her earning a resisting arrest charge. As I watch her boil like a kettle, I get the sense that she wouldn’t go quietly. I can almost picture it.

“What are you smiling about?” she demands.

Am I smiling?I regain control of my features.

“Nothing. The point is—I’m not going to involve the authorities. But I would like you to leave.”

She throws up her hands. “But we don’t even know what happened!”

This absurd statement needs no response. There is nowe. We are not a mystery-solving team. And I’m less interested in science fiction theories and more interested in finding a locksmith with availability … now.

The best explanation for Willow appearing in my closet is that Galentine gave out copies of her key. It would certainly fit with her bleeding-heart sentimentality toward this building and its residents.

Though if this Willow woman did use a key to enter and then forgot how she got here, she has bigger problems to worry about.

Because she seems very sincere and coherent.

But that’s not my problem.

“Perhaps an MRI might be a good place to look for answers?” I suggest mildly.

Willow gasps. “I told you I’m not crazy!”

“An MRI would be to detect whether there might be anomalies causing atypical brain function. The kind that might result in memory loss or confusion.”

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