The morning came gray and thin, like a film stretched too tight over the sun. I was back at my mother’s building before the heat had burned the dew off the grass. The place always looked tired in daylight—like it was embarrassed to be seen without its night makeup.
I came to check on my mother, to make sure all the preparations for the pest company had been made. I slid my key into the outer door just as a man was sorting his mail. His age fit the building—low-income, low-energy, and long past the point of surprise.
“You look a little young to live here,” he said dryly, nodding at my key.
“Visiting my mom,” I replied, hoping that would end it.
“Hmph. Family that visits—must be nice,” he muttered, almost bitter, shuffling away. “Elevator’s busted again, so don’t bother.” My mom lived on the first floor, but I said thanks anyway.
“Didn’t say it for you.” He let the door fall shut behind me. It slammed with the finality of a coffin lid. He felt like the building in human form—grumpy, stale, and held together by habit.
I knocked on my mother’s door as lightly as I could. For all her faults, her hearing wasn’t one of them, and I liked to test the limits of that. Quiet knocks and whispered gossip? She’d hear it fine. Talk directly to her about her pills? Not a damn thing.
“Come in!” she called, cheerful just to have company. She looked better than the apartment, but only slightly. The place smelled like cat litter and reheated dinners, with a faint sweetness that hinted something once alive had given up somewhere out of sight.
“Morning,” she said, tugging her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “You want coffee?”
I hesitated. “Do you still have a coffee maker?”
“Of course I do,” she said, like I’d insulted her. “Somewhere.”
From the kitchen came the unmistakable sound of Charlotte bolting the moment she saw me—claws scrabbling across linoleum, then silence.
“She still hates me,” I said.
“She doesn’t hate you. She’s… particular.”
“She hid in a potato drawer once.”
“She gets scared easily.”
“Still doesn’t explain the potato drawer.”
“Potatoes need a home,” she said, as if that settled the matter.
I made my way inside. The table was buried under coupons, half-finished puzzles, cutouts, unopened mail, and a collection of mugs all claiming to be her favorite. I cleared a spot with my sleeve and sat.
“I talked to Leona last night,” I said.
“Oh lord. That woman.”
“She said the pest company’s been spraying at weird hours.”
My mother frowned and glanced toward the window. “They came again last night. Said it was a quick follow-up. Left a note on the door.”
“You let them in?”
“I wasn’t here. Bingo night.”
“Did you call the office?”
She waved a hand. “They don’t answer on weekends. I figured they knew what they were doing.”
“That’s a dangerous assumption around here.”
Before she could respond, a dull thump came from the hallway. Not loud, but enough to make her pause mid-sip.
I opened the door. The hallway was empty—no one, no sound. Just a folded piece of paper on the floor. Blank on one side. On the other, a red circle drawn in marker.
I held it up. “You get one of these before?”
She shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. “No.”
Charlotte peeked out from behind the couch, eyes wide, tail flicking. She hissed once at the door. And for a moment, I couldn’t tell if it was at something in the hall—or something still inside.