Every Four Years

Lucas

Lucas Reed — Age 26

I’m sitting in Alley and Grace’s apartment, staring at their front door like it just slammed on a ghost.

The woman who walked out a minute ago is a contradiction in every possible sense.

She’s tall, graceful even when she’s lifting boxes that two movers struggled with. Strong — not in the gym-rat way, but the kind of strength that’s been earned. She carries herself like she’s ready for anything, yet every word she says feels measured, filtered through a wall I can’t see but definitely feel.

And she’s beautiful. Not in a rehearsed, social media kind of way — more like sunlight through rain clouds. Storm-blue eyes that catch every detail, hair the color of old gold, skin that doesn’t flinch from the world. When she smiles — and it’s rare — it’s almost disarming.

But her hands… her hands tell a different story. Calloused, knuckles scarred. The kind of marks you don’t get from typing or baking or painting. The kind you earn by surviving.

I can’t figure her out.

Grace sighs from across the table, following my gaze to the empty doorway. “I’m sorry about her. She’s usually a really nice person. She’s just been grumpy since she woke up this morning. I don’t know what’s up with her today.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “She seemed… uh, nice.”

Grace laughs. “Ha! Please. She’s been a moody cow all day.”

That earns a smile out of me. Grace is easy to be around — bright, warm, completely unfiltered. The kind of person who makes you feel like you’ve known her for years after ten minutes of conversation.

“You two seem close,” I say. “How did you meet?”

She leans back in her chair, a small, thoughtful smile tugging at her lips. “We are close. I suppose that’s what happens when someone saves your life.”

That catches me off guard. “Saves your life?”

She hesitates — not like she’s hiding something, but like she’s deciding how much to share. “We met five years ago. I was working at a coffee shop. Alley used to come in every afternoon, sit in the same spot by the window, order one coffee, and stay until closing. This was before she started Haven.”

She looks down, fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “I was in an abusive marriage back then. I didn’t really let people in. I couldn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

She waves it off gently. “It feels like a lifetime ago now. Anyway, one night my husband came in after closing — looking for trouble. Alley must’ve seen something in his body language, because she followed him inside. Next thing I know, she’s getting me out of there and driving me to her place. I’ve been here ever since.”

There’s a weight under her words — something she’s not saying. Something about how Alley got her out. I picture those scarred knuckles again.

I want to ask, but we barely know each other. I’ll play it safe — for now.

“What’s Haven?” I ask instead.

She blinks. “Sorry?”

“You mentioned it. You said she started Haven after you met.”

“Oh!” Grace brightens. “Haven’s the charity Alley set up four years ago. It’s kind of a mix between a homeless shelter, a domestic violence refuge, and a community support center. She built it for anyone who needs help — big or small. Food, shelter, legal advice, job training — whatever people need, she’ll find a way to give it to them.”

I whistle softly. “That’s incredible. So you work there too?”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling proudly. “I was her first employee. We opened one center, now we’ve got three across London. Alley never slows down — she’s always planning something new. I teach basic cooking classes on Wednesdays, and she runs self-defense lessons. That’s where she rushed off to just now.”

“Self-defense, huh?” I murmur, half to myself. That explains the scars. And the posture. And maybe the way she flinched — barely — when I said I was a cop.

Grace doesn’t seem to notice. “You should come down sometime! We love having visitors, especially ones who can lend a hand. Here, I’ll give you both our numbers.”

I take my phone out, and we exchange details. Her contact name pops up as Grace-from-across-the-hall with a muffin emoji.

I chuckle. “You’re efficient.”

“Always,” she says with a wink.

We talk a while longer — about my transfer, her classes, the city. She’s funny, animated, effortlessly open. It’s strange, sitting here with someone so genuine after years of interviewing suspects and witnesses who always have something to hide. Grace has nothing to hide — but I get the sense that her friend hides everything.

Eventually I stand, smiling. “Thank you for the muffins, and the company. I should probably start unpacking before it gets dark.”

Grace rises with me. “Anytime, neighbor. And don’t forget — Haven. Come by, you’ll love it.”

I nod, meaning it. “I will.”

I step out into the corridor, their door closing softly behind me. My own flat is half full of boxes, but I don’t start unpacking right away.

Instead, I find myself at the window, staring at the reflection of their door across the hall.

That woman — Alley. There’s something about her that doesn’t add up. She’s strong but distant, cautious but kind. She reads every room like she’s mapping exits. And when I told her I was a detective, the light drained right out of her.

Something happened to her. Something that changed the way she sees the world — and especially people like me.

I should leave it alone. She’s a neighbor, not a case.

But as I stand there in the quiet, the taste of blueberries still lingering, I know one thing for certain.

You’re a mystery, Alley.

And I’ve never been able to resist a mystery.