By morning, reporters had turned my apartment building into a crime scene without needing a body.
They stood beneath umbrellas on the pavement, wrapped in coats and impatience, cameras pointed toward the entrance as if my front door might confess before I did. News vans lined the curb. A man with a headset drank coffee beside the mailboxes. Two photographers leaned against the opposite building, lenses lifted toward my windows. Every time a flash went off, my curtains glowed white for one violent second.
I watched from the narrow gap between the fabric and the wall.
Someone shouted my name from below.
I stepped back immediately.
My apartment had never felt smaller. Tessa’s place had been cramped in a comforting way, full of mismatched mugs, soft blankets and the smell of whatever cand
