Chapter 2
A Concerned Neighbor
Damian
I explain, calmly, reasonably, repeatedly, why this is a bad idea. I avoid specifics. I avoid panic. I don’t tell her why it’s unsafe, because I can’t.
She doesn’t hear a word of it.
Within minutes, we’re in the small underground garage where her beat-up two-door sedan waits. She yanks the driver’s door open with a protesting creak and slides behind the wheel.
I move to the passenger side and open that door too.
That finally gets her attention.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demands, brows drawn into a sharp V, hands landing on her hips.
I drop into the seat and cross my arms. Settle in.
“If you insist on going,” I say evenly, “I’m coming with you. It’s not safe.”
I match her glare with one of my own. Calm. Immovable.
“Wh—what?” she sputters. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
I lift my chin, composed to the point of absurdity. “A concerned neighbor.”
Her jaw tightens. “Get out of my car.”
“No.”
“Get out now.”
“I won’t.”
“I said, right now. Out!” She lunges across the center console and shoves hard on my upper arm.
I don’t budge. I work out every day. Outweigh her by over 150 pounds. There is no universe in which she wins this physically—and that’s when the thought hits me, sharp and destabilizing.
She’s touching me.
Hannah Johnson has her hands on me.
They’re warm. Furious. Grabby. When her fingers make contact with my skin, something lights up along my nervous system like I’ve been exposed to radiation. A full-body awareness I wasn’t prepared for.
Jesus Christ.
I go perfectly still, not because she could hurt me, but because every instinct in me wants to grab her. Pull her closer, into my arms, and keep her here, contained, safe, mine.
I force my hands to stay folded across my chest.
If she drives off alone, I might actually kill someone tonight.
“I’m not leaving,” I say quietly.
Her eyes flash, incandescent with fury, and for a split second I see it, how easy it would be for her to misunderstand this moment. To think I’m trying to control her.
I’m not.
I’m trying to stop what comes next. To protect her.
There’s a long pause. I can practically see her mind scramble for solutions, but there are none. I’m not going anywhere.
“Fine,” she spits out at last, the word sharp and acidic. “Stay if you want. I’m going, no matter what.”
She puts her phone in the cupholder, but not before I see a blinking green dot on a map.
That must be where Marco is. She twists the key.
The engine coughs, then sputters to life.
I watch in the side mirror as a puff of gray smoke belches from the exhaust. She throws the car into reverse, tires squealing against concrete, as she backs out at a reckless speed, then guns it up the ramp toward the street.
Too fast.
With a jolt and a hard swerve, we burst onto the main road. The dashboard clock says it’s just past seven p.m. as the traffic swallows us whole.
Cars press in on every side, metal and glass and headlights everywhere, horns blaring like alarms I can’t shut off. Neon signs flash by too bright, too fast, red, blue, white, all stacked on top of one another until my vision starts to blur at the edges.
My chest tightens.
No.
No, no, no.
I tug at the collar of my jacket. It’s suddenly strangling me.
The fabric feels wrong. Too heavy. Too close.
Sweat breaks out along my spine, cold and slick.
Why does everything feel so…loud?
It’s so fucking loud out here.
My breathing goes shallow. Sharp. Like my lungs have forgotten how to expand.
“Why is it so bright?” I hold my hand up to shield my eyes from the glare of the streetlights, of the passing cars.
Hannah glances over, frowning. “What?”
“The lights,” I say, tugging at my collar again. My skin is too tight. It doesn’t fit anymore. “Why are there so many lights?”
She squints at the road ahead, then back at me. “It’s…night.”
That doesn’t help.
“Why are there so many people?” I ask, my voice coming out higher than I mean it to.
She lets out a short, confused laugh. “We live in a city.”
Right.
Of course we do.
Her answer doesn’t calm me. It makes everything worse. My pulse hammers in my ears. The car is way too small. The air too thick.
How many people live in New York now? A million? A billion?
Has every single person on the planet moved to this city since I was last outside?
That’s when I realize…I haven’t been out in a long time.
Not weeks. Not months.
Years.
The thought lands hard enough to set my mind spinning.
How had I not noticed?
I work…remotely.
Order groceries…delivered.
Pay my bills…online.
I drag in a breath. It doesn’t go all the way down, just sticks right in the middle of my throat. Strangling me.
Don’t panic.Don’t panic.Don’t scare her.Get a grip.Oh my God.Why do I feel like I’m dying?
I press my palms flat against my thighs, trying to ground myself in the pressure.
My leg bounces anyway. My shoulders hunch.
I have an overwhelming urge to curl into a ball.
Like one of those bugs. What are they called?
Oh. A roly-poly. Why am I thinking about bugs?
Now I’m itchy. My fingers claw at my arms.
Hannah keeps glancing over at me, her expression increasingly alarmed.
“Hey,” she says slowly. “Are you…okay?”
No.
Not okay.
“Fine,” I lie immediately, panting slightly. “Just—uh. Haven’t been out much.”
That’s an understatement. Like calling the ocean damp.
She studies me from the corner of her eye. “You look kind of pale.”
“I’m always pale,” I say, forcing a smile. “It’s a lifestyle choice.”
That earns me a snort, but she doesn’t look convinced.
Traffic crawls. A bus roars past. Someone yells on the sidewalk. A siren wails in the distance, sharp and piercing, and I flinch before I can stop myself.
Hannah notices.
Her grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Do you want me to pull over?”
The idea makes my throat close.
Pulling over means standing outside. Means people. Nowhere to hide.
“No,” I say too quickly, tilting my head back. I try to breathe. “No, I’m fine,” I lie. “Really.”
I’m not fine.
I’m holding myself together with duct tape and bad decisions.
“Just—uh, can you, um—talk to me?” I ask, working hard to keep my voice steady. Like I’m asking for a favor and not oxygen.
She glances over again, this time longer. Assessing. Deciding.
“Okay,” she says finally. “But if you throw up in my car, you’re paying for the detailing.”
“That’s fair,” I agree immediately.
She exhales through her nose, a corner of her mouth twitching despite herself. “God. Men are so dramatic.”
The words shouldn’t help. Neither should the way she rolls her eyes. They do.
The panic loosens its grip just enough for me to breathe a little deeper.
“Talk about…what?” she asks.
“Anything,” I say. “Literally anything.”
She taps her fingers against the steering wheel, thinking. The car inches forward in traffic.
“When I first moved in,” she says finally, “I thought the landlord was going to kick me out.”
“What?” I frown. “Why?”
“Because the other tenants complained about my cat.” She sits up straighter, checks her rearview mirror, changes lanes. “Apparently he would cry, like, really loud, when I was at work.”
She glances at me. “He’s kind of clingy.”
I don’t blame him.
That’s what I think, watching how the green in her eyes turns to brown at the edges.
“But then they said he stopped,” she adds with a shrug.
I think of the cat food in my pantry.
“The landlord would never kick you out,” I say.
She gives me a look, curious, skeptical, like she wants to ask how I could possibly be so sure.
Before she does, I cut in.
“More,” I say. “This is helping.” And I mean it.
She tilts her head, then smiles a little. “Okay…you know Ms. Whittle in 2A?”
“Yeah,” I nod, focusing on the cadence of her voice, the way it grounds me while she keeps her eyes on the road.
“Well, I have a suspicion she’s got a thing for Mr. Jones in 3B.” She lets it hang there, waiting.
It works.
The tension in my shoulders eases, just a little.
“Really?” I tilt my head. “I’ve never seen them together.”
“I have,” Hannah sings, smug. “They were at a café together last week. Outside table. I walked by, then did a double take when I realized who it was.”
“What were they doing?”
“Just talking,” she says, then lifts her eyebrows. “But they were sitting very close. Like knees-almost-touching close.”
I huff out a laugh before I can stop myself.
It feels…better. The fear eases a few more notches.
“No way,” I say, remembering my monitors. The cameras. “They don’t go to each other’s apartments. I barely see them together.”
She frowns. “How would you know? You never leave your place.”
Shit.
“That’s not true,” I say quickly. “Maybe I come out when you’re at work.”
“You don’t,” she says, far too confidently.
Now I’m defensive, which, oddly enough, helps even more.
“You can’t know that,” I argue. “You’re not there.”
She snorts. “I talked to the other tenants.”
I blink. “You…talked about me? Like you all had some secret building-wide meeting and didn’t invite me?”
Her cheeks flush pink in the dashboard glow. “Not like that. I just…asked around when I first moved in.”
My chest does something stupid.
“Oh?” I lean forward, one elbow braced on my knee, which has finally stopped bouncing. “What did they say?”
She keeps her eyes on the road. “That you’re quiet. Polite. Mysterious.”
“Mysterious,” I repeat solemnly. I pause, then say, “I’ll take it.”
She flicks me a look. “Don’t.”
“Too late.” A grin tugs at my mouth. “It’s absolutely going to my head.”
She huffs and rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. Really smiling.
“What else did they say about me?” I ask, genuinely curious.
A pause. “That you don’t date. No one’s ever seen a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, visit you.”
“You don’t date either,” I point out.
Her jaw tightens. “I was trying to…tonight.” She gestures vaguely at herself, her dress and shoes.
“You just picked the wrong guy.”