Chapter 10: The Other Apartment

Colby had walked out without his coat.

It hung on a stool at the Corner Tap, a brown canvas jacket I had bought him for Christmas.

Bridget dug through the pockets with two fingers and held up a key ring.

"Truck key," she said. "House key. Gym tag."

She held up the last one, a brass key with a strip of masking tape on it.

Someone had written 3B in neat black pen.

"Neat handwriting," Bridget said. "She labels her sins."

"Delaney's," I said.

"Delaney's."

I took the key, and Rhys stood up from his stool.

"It's his name on that lease," he said. "And yours, in a way, since your money paid for it. You have a right to see it."

"Is that legal advice?"

"It's the best I've got."

We drove across the river in his truck through the snow, with the wipers going and neither of us talking.

Marshall Avenue was a row of old brick buildings with fire escapes and lit windows.

Number 418 had a front door that stuck.

I used the brass key, and the lock gave with a click.

The stairs smelled like someone else's dinner.

On the third floor, I put the key in 3B and turned it.

The door opened inward on a dark room, and Rhys found the switch.

It was a pretty apartment.

That was the first thing that hurt.

A deep gray couch. A white rug. Plants in copper pots on the windowsill, healthy and watered.

On the wall hung a framed print of two figures dancing, and under it, in a gold frame, was a photograph.

It was a kiss cam still from some other game.

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