Chapter 7
7
M ACKENZIE
Before Christmas
I head out for my daily walk later than usual. It’s almost five in the afternoon, and it’s dark outside.
I normally walk around the neighborhood in the mornings––especially when I’m not working, which I’m currently not.
But today, I’ve spent the entire day cleaning my place, organizing my drawers and closet, listening to music, and sifting through some old photographs.
Like the one of my ex that Callan asked about, the one I should’ve deleted from my phone.
What does a man like Callan––I’m sure it’s not his real name––know about a man like Quinn?
How can he tell so many things about our story just by looking at Quinn’s picture and running his eyes over me a few times?
I've never understood this commonly accepted belief about people needing to be a good match. I think it’s a matter of how you feel about that person at that time.
And frankly, I never thought I could do better than Quinn. He was enough for me. But I wasn’t enough for him.
That happens.
Or maybe I wasn’t the right woman for him.
That happens, too.
An elderly woman once said it’s important to find your man before repeated disappointments tear your heart apart.
The more people ransack your life, the more broken you become. You can’t trust your intuition anymore, and your choices become a reflection of that.
I argued with her that there’s a world of perfect choices out there, and it’s a matter of time to find the right person and prove her wrong.
She smiled and said nothing.
I start to believe she may have been right.
Speaking of my current life, I spent last night trying to figure out what was happening upstairs.
It was a terrible way to spend my evening, but I couldn’t stop myself.
The same elderly woman once said our worst picks feed our bodies more than they nourish our souls.
Quinn didn’t do either for me, but we were good friends––or so I thought––until we weren’t.
Everything was fine––I also thought––which wasn’t the case.
At any rate, I can’t blame my inexplicable obsession with the man occasionally spending time upstairs on some emotional baggage weighing down my soul.
I’m fine.
Despite not having a father in my life, I don’t dig the aloof, emotionally unavailable men who tie your mind into a knot with their annoying indecisiveness.
I don’t care for their wicked ways as I consider myself a pragmatic, level-headed person.
So why the hell did I spend my evening crafting scenarios about what went on upstairs?
I don’t know.
But one thing I do know.
The people upstairs––Callan and Carmen, I suspect––had stayed quiet. Although I can’t tell when he left the building, I do have a few theories.
And then, there was this possibility that he had never gone upstairs.
There was a gap between the moment we talked in front of my door and when I decided to check the street.
At some point, I heard steps upstairs.
They were faint and paced.
They could’ve been Carmen’s steps.
Or maybe they wereCallan's, trailing across the room.
Whatever it was, I never saw him leave the building, and that bugged me immensely because I needed to know for sure he hadn’t spent time upstairs.
The possibility that he might’ve spent the night with her and left in the morning while I was asleep makes me queasy, so I’d rather not consider it.
Taking a long breath, I step out of my building and scan the street. A woman walks her dog––a white fluffy Pomeranian––and I envy her for a second as I wish I had a companion like hers.
Before I walk to the first block, I slide on my wool gloves, make sure the scarf is wrapped comfortably around my neck, my winter hat is not crooked, and my jacket is zipped up to my chin.
Since I’m out, I could buy something from the deli—an egg and cheese sandwich, maybe?
The guy around the corner cooks it best.
But first, I need to get my steps in.
By the time I make the trip back, cross the street, and order a sandwich and a cup of coffee, my legs are sore from all that walking.
This deli had been my favorite spot for breakfast since before I stopped going there because I’d lost my job, but now I plan to go back whenever I get the chance.
With my cheeks aflame from the warmth inside the deli and my hands full, I take my time to return to my building while munching on my food.
Inevitably, my eyes go up as I near the building.
My windows are barely lit while the upstairs apartment is sunk in darkness.
Carmen must’ve left.
Most windows in the building are dark, which is not surprising.
Staring at the view, a thought pops into my head.
I truly have no plans to move out of Brooklyn, but life is unpredictable in New York, and anything can happen.
I’m about to peel my gaze away and get another bite when a light flickers in my upstairs neighbor’s apartment.
Uh… What?
I draw still, still chewing on my food, my eyes trained on Carmen’s windows.
Was that light real? Or am I seeing things now?
A chill rushes down my spine, a swift reminder that it’s cold outside, and I almost lose hope the light will flash again when it glows behind her bedroom window.
The light quickly dips, and the window goes dark again.
It’s a flashlight, and someone’s in her apartment, inspecting her belongings.
That’s strange.
Absently, I swallow my food and pull to the side, my head still tilted back, my eyes on my neighbors’ windows.
What is going on?
Everything remains still for the next few moments, with no signs of an intruder, and then a car rolls down the road, and I recognize her husband’s ride.
Oh.
This is newsworthy.And so it is whoever’s checking out the woman’s apartment upstairs.
Could that be him?
Callan?
Wait a second.
Is this story truly about more than him having sex with a married woman?
This is not the first time I’m having this feeling.
And everything sort of points in that direction.
The men walking in and out of her apartment.
Callan’s mysterious ways.
His interest in her whereabouts.
The cash lining my pockets.
The two men looking like the worst kind of thugs.
As much as I like to earn money, I truly hope I’m not getting into some serious legal problems.
The last thing I need right now is cops knocking at my door and the possibility of having a real job getting forever shattered.
I can’t live without a job.
Of course I could go back to waiting tables or delivering food for a living, but I don’t have a car.
So, I need to make this shit work, or I’ll have to go back to Philly and start from scratch, which I don’t want to.
These stupid new beginnings set me back and make me poor.
Poorer.
It’s like pushing a boulder up the hill and never making it to the top before the damn thing rolls back and crushes me under its weight.
I hold my bag of food tight against my chest and watch the husband’s car come to a stop in front of the building.
Carmen steps out of the passenger’s seat.
She wears slim-fit jeans, a bright purple jacket, and high-heeled boots.
She looks amazing. Her style is not my style, but I can see the appeal of being a walking tease.
She surely knows how to stir up drama, and men love it, from what I can tell.
She waves her husband goodbye––okay––and walks up the stairs with a spring in her step––that’s interesting.
She only glances back once, and he waves at her in response.
He seemingly has different plans for the evening as he carefully watches her enter the building before swerving his car away and vanishing around the corner.
Where has he been all these days?
And more importantly, what should I do now?
Should I follow her inside?
Or should I look up to see whether someone is waiting in her apartment for her to get home?
I hope her place doesn’t become a crime scene, and I don’t turned into the only witness. As if I can tell what’s going on just by staring up from here.
I should go inside.
Unexpectedly, the lights come on in her apartment, and I linger a little longer to see if anything happens.
Is she stumbling upon her secret visitor?
Has she expected him to be there?
I have no doubt it’s a man.
So far, nothing happens.
There is no shouting in anger or screaming with surprise.
No one is calling the police.
Her silhouette slowly glides past the window as she takes her jacket off and bends over, probably reaching for the remote control.
That’s what I’d do.
The blue light of a TV illuminates the room, replacing the ceiling lights she just turned off.
Soon after, she enters the bathroom, and a light glows in that space.
There’s no one else in her apartment.
That’s good.
My eyes go to the entrance of the building.
The back exit is rarely used by the tenants or the occasional visitors.
It’smainly for deliveries and the cleaning crew.
Maybe I was wrong, and there was no flashlight.
Unless someone from inside the building had accessed her apartment.
Someone who owns a copy of her key.
Like the superintendent?
That would be gross, and perhaps illegal if he’s getting in without a notice.
Or maybe some weirdo has gotten obsessed with the sultry woman and searched for her underwear to snatch it away.
Like a trophy.
Eww.
I don’t need this in my life.
Gesturing in disappointment, I set myself in motion and enter the building.
MACKENZIE
The blue plush robe pampers my skin.
Still warm from the shower, I loosely tie my belt, slip on my slippers, and shuffle to the kitchen.
Casually, I glance out the window.
The street is a bleak mix of darkness, snow-covered cars, and thick fog.
Enthralled with the smell wafting through my house––a fresh aroma of fir tree needles––I sit at the kitchen table and peel an orange before drinking coffee and eating fruit while pondering.
I love my life.
There was a moment when this time of year was incredibly stressful. It took a while to get used to spending the holidays alone before Quinn came into my life.
That sadly didn’t last for long, and now I’m back to spending the holidays alone at my place––for which I am grateful.
Tonight, I’ll watch a movie or read a book, and tomorrow I’ll sleep in. There’s no reason to go out in the morning. Everything I need is here, inside.
My thoughts come to a screeching halt when the distinct sound of an object brushing against my door raises my hackles.
I set my drink down and listen, not breathing, my heart pounding faster.
My place is quiet, and so is the corridor.
What was that again?
I love everything about this place, but solving mysteries that come to me so fast has never been my thing.
Seemingly, I can’t catch a break, and some weird shit happens.
An odd idea pops into my head, making me silently push my chair back, rise, pivot to the top kitchen drawer, and retrieve a flashlight before turning the lights off.
Hopefully, I’m not dealing with some weirdo.
Could it be the man who’s trespassed the place upstairs?
My fears are unfounded as nothing seems to move, and no sound comes from the corridor.
I slip my feet out of my slippers and tiptoe to the door.
Slowly, I rise on my toes and peer through the peephole.
Short off someone bending down in front of my door to pull a prank on me, I have nothing to worry about.
I wait a few moments before I carefully unlock the door and crack it open.
My eyes tear into the space before me, my mouth falling open. A beautifully wrapped Christmas gift sits on the mat in front of my door.
Breathlessly, I drag my gaze down the corridor. And then up the corridor.
Is this a mistake? It must be a mistake.
This can’t be for me.
I have no friends in New York except for Kayla, who is still at her parents’ house in New Jersey.
Quinn is out of the picture.Besides, he’s never bought me gifts.
This gift was probably supposed to be delivered to someone else.
I pick it up with great care and study the delicate tiny Christmas tree pattern spread across the white silver background.
The wrapping paper rustles against my touch as I search for a card.There is no card, which only makes everything even more mysterious.
Where should I take this gift?And who should I ask about it?
A mellow Christmas song wafts down the stairwell from upstairs.
Was this gift meant for Carmen?
It’s not completely out of the question, although I’ve never gotten her packages before. On the other hand, I haven’t lived here long enough to deal with that, either.
Maybe it’s hers.
I walk back, set the gift on the couch, and head straight to my closet. But before changing my clothes to go up and knock on her door, I change my mind, return to the living room, and scoop up the gift.
What if it’s mine?
And what if I open the box and peek inside to make sure it’s not mine?
There’s nothing wrong with that.
There’s no address on it. I’m not breaking any laws. I think?
I bring a sharp knife from the kitchen, and with maximum precision, I make a tiny opening in the wrapping paper before partially peeling it off.
A lovely box with embossed Christmas trees peeks from underneath.
And then I notice the little note with my handwritten name on it.
Mackenzie.
A timid smile crawls across my lips.Is this really for me?
My eyes could water just about now, I’m that emotional.
I remove the wrapping paper entirely and slide the lid off. My eyes fill with awe. Inside the box, I find a soft, fuzzy pink sweater, a scarf, and matching gloves.
Next to them, there's a box of chocolates.
And next to the box, an envelope.
I lift it and open it.
Five one hundred bills fall from it, revealing the words underneath.
‘I thought pink would look good on you.
Merry Christmas,
Callan’
Uh… What?
A soft chuckle gurgles in my throat.
Is he hitting on me now?
I pick up the money.
Obviously not.
He’s hoping for more information.
However, I don’t know if the information that I have is helpful to him.
He already knows everything about Carmen.
She’s unfaithful to her husband and to him.
She’s probably seeing other men.
Her husband is a bit sketchy. The other guys are not that great, either.
What else is there to add?
My hands move over the gifts.
Maybe the gifts are real.
Maybe he thought about me when he bought them at the store. But why would he do that? Why wouldn’t he have someone else buy them for me?
As much as I like his gifts, I can’t fool myself into thinking he has developed an obsession with me.
He’s nice, yes. And he also pays me, yes. But as far as I know, I’m only working for him.Nothing more.
I put the goodies back into the box and slide the lid on when the recollection of that flashlight in Carmen’s apartment flickers in front of my eyes.
What if what I saw in her apartment is something he needs to know? What if it’s important to him?
What if it was him?
I doubt it.
Either way, he needs to know that I noticed something strange in the woman’s apartment.
If it was him, I could score some points with him and show him how trustful I am.
If it was someone else, he should know about it. Period.
Another idea pops into my head, and I go back to the closet.
I lose my robe, put on some warm clothes, return to the living room, and unpack his gifts.
This time, I put on the sweater and scarf and grab the matching gloves. I’ll go to that woman’s place–Beverly–and tell him personally about the new developments.
And if he’s not there?
I don’t know.
I’ll come up with something else.