8
Marcus
Where the hell is she?
Standing by the side entrance of an ugly old brownstone, I ring the doorbell for the second time, with the same lack of results.
Emma Walsh is not home.
I know her last name thanks to her f*******: profile, which I accessed by tapping on the f*******: icon on her phone. According to that same profile, she’s single (which I already suspected), twenty-six years old, and a graduate of Brooklyn College. She loves books and does freelance editing when she’s not working at a small, family-owned bookstore. Oh, and she definitely owns cats—three of them, judging by her frequent posts about them on f*******:.
Knowing all this about a woman I met by accident makes me feel like a stalker, a feeling that’s only exacerbated by my inexplicable desire to learn more.
