Chapter 22 Something Old, Something Blue
Something Old, Something Blue
A week slipped by, each day blurring into the next. But I kept moving.
I moved through the days like a fugitive, dodging Ulysses through Neon’s crowds, always aware of his location before he could corner me. Sensing a trap, I’d pivot: an extra sweep of the floor for abandoned glasses, a detour through the breakroom where the new dishwasher blasted reggaeton.
When he watched my sets, I danced sharper, teeth bared, gaze a weapon instead of a shield. The regulars noticed. Michelle dubbed it “Predator Week” and started a betting pool for when the drama would blow up. But even that camaraderie felt fragile, as if everyone was waiting for the storm to break.
It almost did halfway through the week when I found him in the greenroom, alone except for the distant rattle of glassware in the kitchen.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He leaned against the mirrored wall, arms folded, lips pressed into a line and watched me touch up my lipstick with a focus that made my skin tighten.
The air in the room went cold, and for a second I wondered if he could see my heart working overtime through my chest. But I capped the lipstick and gave him a smile that was all teeth and zero invitation and left him standing there.
By Saturday, I knew every alley and shortcut of the club like my own skin. I even started taking Mateo to the community pool in the afternoons, to feel water sluice the sweat and dread from my body, to remind myself that even in the heat, there was relief.
At home, I kept every window latched and checked the peephole before answering any knock. Even Mateo seemed to register the shift. He stopped peppering me with questions and started hovering instead, quieter, watchful, like he was taking notes.
Aiden checked in but never pushed. Some nights, he’d text a single line—You safe?—and I’d answer with a thumbs-up. I never let him come to the club. He never insisted. It was the closest thing to trust I’d ever managed with a man.
On my next day off, a languid Sunday unfolded like a forgotten promise, the sun spilling through the curtains in soft golden rays.
I usually relished the stillness that accompanied the weekend, a stark contrast to the frenetic energy of the club.
But on this occasion, the apartment felt like a tomb.
Mateo was at Ms. White’s on a standing pancake date, and the silence was louder than any hangover.
I wandered the rooms, restless, my skin prickling with the need to do something, anything, to crack the inertia that had settled over my week.
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, searching my reflection for traces of last night’s self: did the performance cling to my hair, to the hollows of my eyes?
I saw nothing but a woman too tired for her own face.
I glanced at Ava’s battered journal on my nightstand, its pages now feathered with post-it tabs and paper clips. It was my best clue, but every time I tried to decode it, the symbols and scrawls seemed to shimmer with a meaning just beyond my reach.
Maybe the answer wasn’t in the pages but in the place itself. Even after all this time. What would Ava have hidden if she knew her days were numbered?
The decision came in a flash. I dressed in a tank and cutoff shorts, tugged on battered Converse, and tied my hair in a high knot that dared the humidity to undo me. I grabbed my messenger bag and headed for the subway.
The subway car rattled beneath me as I found myself bouncing my knee against the worn bench. Ava’s old apartment loomed in my mind like a ghost, its secrets beckoning me closer.
I had contacted the landlord as soon as the idea took shape in my mind, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest, inquiring about the unit. He had told me that the building had been condemned a few months earlier, but that he could make an exception and show it to me, for a fee.
Ava’s old apartment was a six-story walk-up in University Heights, wedged between a bodega and a church thrift shop.
The neighborhood hadn’t changed much in years, but the building was still stuck in its own version of time: no intercom, no elevator, and mailboxes layered with the names of long-gone tenants.
The landlord turned out to be a wiry man in his late-fifties, his gray hair slicked back like he was auditioning for a part in a mob movie.
He met me at the stoop and introduced himself only as Mr. Ortiz.
He jangled a ring of keys that looked like they belonged to a prison, not an apartment building.
“You got ten minutes,” he said without meeting my eyes. “The city inspector comes by sometimes. If he sees us in there, we both get fined.”
“Ten minutes is plenty,” I lied, clutching my bag a little tighter.
The faint hum of fluorescent lights echoed like a dying heartbeat. My footsteps kicked up motes of dust that danced in the thin sunbeam slicing through the window.
“You said you knew the previous tenant?” he asked as we climbed the stairs, his voice echoing off the narrow walls.
“Sort of. A friend of mine,” I said, sidestepping the full truth. “It’s been a while.”
He nodded, winded by the second floor. I climbed the steps behind him, counting off the ancient graffiti with each landing.
The third floor still stank of cat piss and old instant ramen, just like always, a blend that clung to the walls like paint. We stopped outside the familiar door, number 3B, and Mr. Ortiz fished a keyring from his jacket and slid the right one into the lock.
“Don’t stay too long,” he said, pushing the door open. “Power’s cut, and I don’t trust this floor after dark.”
He left me with that cheerful little warning and clomped back down the stairs. The door creaked as I stepped inside.
The apartment was hollow now, stripped bare, but it still carried the same scent I remembered: cheap incense, rain, and something faintly metallic, like pennies pressed to the tongue.
The faint outline of Ava’s furniture still ghosted the walls: the couch that faced the window, the stack of milk crates she used as a nightstand.
The place was smaller than I remembered, but maybe that was just the years stretching it out in my mind. The inside of the apartment had changed, but only on the surface. The walls had been painted at some point, and the cabinets in the kitchen had been replaced.
Despite the superficial changes, the skeleton of Ava’s old life was still visible beneath it all. I could see the wine stain Ava had made, now mostly faded but still dark on the pale laminate.
I walked the perimeter, searching for anything Ava might’ve left behind, even after a decade. I walked slowly, letting my hand trail along the wall as I passed the bathroom. Memories clustered in the corners, ready to ambush me if I let them, but I focused on the job.
The closet stood nearly bare, save for a few remnants of the past: a half-broken vacuum, three mismatched umbrellas leaning against each other, and a tangle of coat hangers that resembled seaweed caught in a current.
I almost gave up but then caught a flash of something shiny wedged behind the vacuum. I crouched and realized it was just the vent. However, the screws were new, shimmering against the old paint. Someone had replaced them.
I knelt and unscrewed them with the coin from my pocket, working fast before I could second-guess myself. The vent cover clattered to the floor.
Inside, tucked deep in the corner, was a Ziploc bag containing a stack of letters. My pulse spiked. Not the answer I’d come for, but something. I slipped the bag into my satchel and kept moving.
I peeked into the old bedroom; it was smaller than I remembered, the sunlight pooling weakly on the floorboards. I glanced around, looking for any hint of the old Ava, but saw nothing until my gaze landed on the closet door.
Ava had always hated closets. To her, they were “liminal spaces,” gateways for the forgotten yet unforgettable. Once, she’d whispered about hiding her treasures where “even a ghost would hesitate to look.” It was a joke then, but now it lodged in my mind like a fishhook.
I crossed the room and opened the closet. It was nearly empty, save for a jumble of mismatched hangers and a pair of boots that weren’t Ava’s size. I stepped inside, scanning the drywall for holes or seams. I ran my hand along the floor, pressing each floorboard until I felt a slight give.
The board at the back, third from the wall, was looser than the rest. I crouched, digging my nails into the seam, and pried it up with a slow, careful pressure. There was no squeal or snap, the kind of job that spoke of intent, a deliberate preparation for the day someone might come looking.
Beneath the board was a space, just wide enough for a small box. It wasn’t even taped shut, just a plain black jewelry box with a rubber band holding it closed. I lifted it, heart pounding in my ears, and set it on the closet floor.
I peeled off the rubber band, lifted the lid, and found it: a battered black notebook, soft at the edges and swollen with use, its cover scored with knife marks and stained with what looked like ink, or maybe blood.
My hands trembled as I picked it up, bringing it close to my face. The scent that hit me was unmistakable: jasmine, yes, but beneath it a sharp, metallic tang, as if the notebook itself had been steeped in a mixture of perfume and old wounds.
I opened to the first page. Ava’s handwriting: angular, looping, the letters racing each other across the page in a rush to be finished.
“REMEMBER,” it read, in all caps. “If you’re reading this, then I failed, and you need to run. The key is real. The stories are real. Don’t trust him. Not even if he makes you feel like the only person in the world. If he’s reading this: fuck you. I’ll see you in the next life.”