Chapter 3
Harley
The next day after work, I push open our apartment door, my body heavy with the weight of a day spent fighting bureaucracy.
The Johnson case went better than expected, but court appearances always drain me like an emotional vampire.
All I want is Thai food, wine, and Skyler’s arms around me.
But something’s wrong; I can feel it in the stillness of our home, in the tight lines around Skyler’s eyes as he appears in the hallway, his carefully neutral expression sending a ripple of unease down my spine.
“You’re home early,” I say, dropping my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door.
“How was court?” Skyler steps forward to take my bag, but his movements are mechanical. His typical relaxed posture replaced by rigid control.
“A win. We got temporary supervision awarded to the mother.” I kick off my heels, studying his face. “What’s wrong?”
“We have a situation…” He uses his architect voice. It’s entirely too professional, and so unlike the Skyler who kissed me this morning.
“What kind of situation?” My pulse quickens. “Is everyone okay? Your parents? Your brother Steven?”
“Everyone’s fine.” He extends his hand. “Come with me.”
He leads me down our hallway toward the bathroom, his fingers laced through mine a little too tightly. My mind races through possibilities. Could be a burst pipe, broken fixture, maybe the ancient water heater finally giving out.
But nothing prepares me for what I see when he pushes open the door.
Black spots are everywhere. They’re on the ceiling and the walls around the shower, spreading underneath the cracks of the white tiles we chose together last year.
In the center of the ceiling, the spots cluster into a dark, ominous bloom, tendrils reaching outward.
Various tiles have been tossed on the floor, likely from Skyler prying them away to assess the damage.
“Is that—” My voice catches.
“Mold,” Skyler confirms, his thumb rubbing circles on my hand. “I noticed a small spot last week, but thought it was just normal bathroom stuff. When I came home early today to surprise you, I saw…this. It’s even worse underneath the tiles.”
My free hand flies to my mouth. “It wasn’t this bad this morning.”
“It’s spreading fast. I already called a contractor. He’s on his way.”
I step closer, peering at the black invasion. “Can we just clean it? Bleach or something?”
Skyler shakes his head. “I tried a small section with mold remover. It came back within hours.”
I think of all the showers we’ve taken, the mornings getting ready for work, breathing in whatever spores have been multiplying above our heads.
“Have you been having headaches lately?” Skyler asks, watching me carefully. “Or that cough that wouldn’t go away last month?”
The implication hits me like a physical blow. “You think this is why I’ve been sick?”
“Maybe.” His voice is too calm, too measured. He’s trying not to scare me, which only scares me more.
The doorbell interrupts whatever he might say next. Skyler squeezes my hand before going to answer it. I remain frozen, staring at the black evidence of invasion, of our home betraying us.
I hear male voices, then footsteps approaching. A stocky man in his fifties enters our bathroom, clipboard in hand. His eyes go straight to the ceiling, and his small frown tells me everything I need to know before he even speaks.
“I’m Ray,” he says, nodding to me before pulling a small device from his tool belt. “I’m going to check the moisture levels first, if that’s alright.”
I step back, bumping into Skyler, who’s appeared in the doorway. His arm immediately circles my waist, steadying me.
The contractor moves methodically, pressing his moisture meter against different sections of the wall, making notes on his clipboard. Each number he murmurs sounds like a countdown to disaster.
“How bad is it?” I finally ask when I can’t stand the silence anymore.
Ray glances at us, his expression professionally grim.
“I’ve seen worse, but not by much. This is Stachybotrys, or toxic black mold.
See how it’s not just surface growth?” He points to areas where the paint is bubbling.
“It’s in the drywall, probably the insulation, too.
And with these readings . . .” He taps his meter.
“You’ve got serious water intrusion somewhere. ”
“Can you fix it?” Skyler’s voice remains steady, but I feel the tension in his body pressed against mine.
“Yes, but it’s not a small job.” Ray runs his hand along the wall beside the shower. “We’ll need to strip this bathroom down to the studs. Check the pipes, the ventilation, replace all the affected materials.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to see the building manager’s number flashing on the screen.
“I should take this,” I murmur, stepping into the hallway.
The conversation is brief and devastating. When I return to the bathroom, Ray is showing Skyler photos of similar mold cases on his tablet. They both look up at my expression.
“That was Howard from management,” I say, my voice sounding distant. “The unit above us had a pipe leak that went undetected. It’s been slowly seeping down through our walls for months. They’ve found mold in three other apartments besides ours.”
Ray nods, unsurprised. “That tracks with what I’m seeing.”
“Howard says we need to vacate immediately.” The words feel surreal as they leave my mouth. “The whole building’s being evacuated for remediation. At least two months.”
“Two months?” Skyler’s composure finally cracks. “Where are we supposed to go for two months?”
Panic rises in my chest, a tide I can’t control. Our wedding is in four months. All our carefully laid plans, our budget stretched to its limit already. Where will we stay? How much will this cost? What about all our things?
As if reading my mind, Ray clears his throat. “You’ll want to be careful about what you take with you. Soft goods—clothes, bedding, upholstered furniture—can trap spores. Hard surfaces can be wiped down with vinegar or hydrogen peroxide, but anything porous might need professional cleaning.”
“Our clothes? Our bed?” My voice rises despite my efforts to stay calm. “Are you saying everything’s contaminated?”
“Not everything,” Ray says gently. “Items in closed closets away from the bathroom are probably fine. But anything in open areas, especially fabric items . . .” He trails off with an apologetic shrug.
Skyler’s phone chimes with a text. “Howard’s sending over official notice. We need to be out by tomorrow evening the latest.”
Tomorrow. The word echoes in my head like a death knell.
“I’ll put together an estimate and a remediation plan for the management office,” Ray says, tucking his tablet into his bag.
“Since the leak originated in the main line, the building’s insurance will cover the professional cleaning and structural repairs.
You should contact your renter’s insurance agent immediately, though—they’ll be the ones to handle relocation costs and any damage to your personal property. ”
“I’ll call our renter’s insurance right now,” Skyler says while I’m still in a daze. He disappears for a few minutes, but then returns with a grim frown. “Our insurance lapsed. I-I thought it had been on autopay, but apparently it wasn’t. We’ve been uninsured this entire time.”
Ray winces. “In that case, the complex only owes you a prorated refund on your rent for the days the unit is unlivable. They aren’t legally required to pay for your hotel or any new furnishings.”
I nod automatically, processing nothing. All I can think about is that we have no home. Not for two months. Not with a wedding approaching. Not with my limited savings and Skyler’s father already questioning our financial readiness for marriage.
Ray continues talking about containment protocols and air quality tests, but his words wash over me in a meaningless stream. I feel Skyler’s hand find mine again, anchoring me to the present.
“We’ll figure this out,” he whispers against my hair. “I promise.”
But as I stare at the black invader spreading across our bathroom ceiling, all I can think is, This is just the beginning of our troubles.
I stare at my phone screen, scrolling through nearby Airbnb listings with increasingly horrified eyes.
Everything remotely affordable is booked solid for the next month—tourist season in Chicago is no joke.
The few available places cost more per night than our monthly rent.
I glance at Skyler, who’s making calls to friends from work, his voice low and controlled, despite the creeping desperation I can see in the tight set of his shoulders.
Ray left an hour ago with promises to expedite our case. Howard sent a formal evacuation notice, all legalese and liability waivers, requiring our signature by morning. The reality is setting in like concrete, heavy and permanent.
We have no home.
Skyler hangs up, shaking his head. “Jason’s spare room is being used by his mother-in-law. Derek’s renovating. Mark’s out of town and doesn’t want to give out his key.”
I nod, unsurprised. It’s amazing how quickly a robust social network dissolves when you need actual shelter.
“I’ll try my stepmom,” I say, already dialing.
If anyone would take us in without hesitation, it’s Maria.
Before she moved in with my dad, she lived in a bookstore apartment.
As she owns it, she never bothered to sell it, and instead my parents stay there when they visit her bookstore.
The apartment upstairs isn’t huge, but it has a pull-out couch and proximity to our jobs.
Plus, she makes the best stress-reducing tea on the planet, which I could desperately use right now.
I would stay with her and my dad in their current house, but it’s two hours away.
The commute would be too great for our jobs.
The phone rings three times before Maria’s warm voice answers. “Harley! I was just thinking about you. How did the Johnson case go?”