The deadbolt turned. Then the chain. She stood there for a moment with her hand still on it, listening to the apartment close itself around her, the familiar small sounds of the rooms settling into evening quiet. Her bag was still on her shoulder. She hadn't quite decided to put it down yet.
She took her phone out and opened her contacts. Scrolled without a destination in mind, the way you scroll when you're looking for permission rather than a number. She stopped on Daniel's name. Looked at it. Kept scrolling. Stopped on James's. Looked at that one longer.
She put the phone face-down on the counter and went to make tea, both hands occupied, neither of them holding anything she had to decide about.
She called Daniel twenty minutes later.
Not the full account — not the anonymous texts,
