Page 80 of Left-Hand Larceny

Sadie’s heels are too loud in the dark. Every step echoes like it doesn’t belong in this kind of house—glass and stone and silence dressed up like status. She mumbles something about living in the basement and doesn’t look at me when she unlocks the door.

“Sorry,” she says. “It’s not like… this isn’t really my space.”

I step inside, frowning. “Don’t be sorry for taking help when it’s offered.”

The entryway alone is bigger than my bedroom at home in Iceland. Everything is white or gray or brushed metal. Cold. Clean. Expensive in the way a waiting room is expensive—beautiful but barren. Empty.

Not like Sadie at all.

She kicks off her shoes by the stairs and glances over her shoulder. “They’re minimalists.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re n-not.”

She hesitates. “I don’t think I’ve ever really been allowed to find out what I am.”

She leads me to a door off the chef’s kitchen and we take the stairs down. The temperature shifts. The walls are still pale, the light recessed and soft. But when she opens the door to her room, it feels like stepping into someone real.

It’s warm. Alive. Textured.

I stop in the doorway and just… look.

Sadie watches me, waiting.

“This i-is you,” I say. Her breath catches. “Let m-me know if I g-got it right.”

I move slowly, giving her time to stop me if she wants to, but she just stands near the door, watching like she’s not sure she’s allowed to enjoy this part.

The bed has stark white sheets and a down comforter, but there’s a bright pink crocheted throw draped over the foot. String lights wind around a shelf. A closer inspection shows they’re all different colored dragonflies. A poster for the band Cast & Prey, Gibson Hawk singing into a microphone under neon lights, is tacked to the wall, curling slightly at the corners.

There’s a little shelf by the window full of tiny figurines. A frog wearing a crown. A ceramic peach with a bite out of it. A miniature disco ball. A well-loved stuffed cow.

There are photos everywhere—pinned and framed and taped in clusters across the walls. Sadie, her parents, friends I recognize, faces I don’t. I smile and step closer to the wall of pictures. Some have frames, but most are printed and taped up—candid shots of flowers and food and city streets, the edge of a girl’s glittering glasses just barely visible in the lens's corner.

I point to one near her dresser. A close-up of moss crawling over a fallen log, the light so soft and rich it looks like velvet. “Y-you took these.”

It’s not a question.

Sadie comes to stand beside me, close enough I feel her shoulder brush my arm. “Yeah. Just for fun.”

“They’re m-more than f-f-fun.”

She shrugs. “I mean… I’ve always liked taking pictures. My parents got me a camera after college since I kept using my phone and filling up my storage. But I’m not, like, trained or anything.”

I study the images again. These aren’t tourist shots.

“You s-see things o-o-other people don’t.”

“They’re just details.”

“Exactly.” I look at her. “That’s w-what makes them s-s-special.”

She glances down at her feet, but she’s smiling. A little.

“They remind m-me of y-you,” I say.

Her eyes flick up. “What?”

I motion to the wall.

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