“Hey there,” he said kindly.
I yanked open my own little silver mailbox and sifted through the handful of weekly mailers and twenty-percent-off coupons. “Hey,” I said without meeting his eyes.
“Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
I looked over Will’s left shoulder at the grey sky outside and then back at Will, one eyebrow raised. He looked slightly sheepish. “Okay, so I’m not great at making small talk.”
“And I’m still not entirely sure you’re not a stalker.”
He retrieved a handful of mail—I noticed a few air bills and the red-and-white border of par avion envelopes—and slammed the mailbox door. He raised his Jamba Juice to me and spun on his heel. “Nice talking to you.”
I stood grumpily in the hallway, tearing my junk mail into violent shreds, then dumped the whole handful into recycling and climbed into the elevator.
I pushed open my apartment door and dropped my things in the hall, crouching down to scoop up ChaCha and let her lick my face and wag her little puppy tail spastically. I started to feel better after I showered off the People’s Pants stench, tossed my cell phone into my sock drawer, and ordered a pizza from Mr. Pizza Man. I was dressed in an oversized pair of Giants flannel pants—little orange and black hats scattered all over my legs—and a floppy, thigh-length T-shirt when the doorbell rang and ChaCha went barreling toward it. She jumped up and down at the door, pressing her nose against the frame to get a good pizza-whiff. I grabbed a twenty out of my purse and met the pizza man at the door.
“Oh,” I said when I pulled the door open. “Mr. Matsura. Sorry.” I patted my damp, unbrushed hair. “I thought you were the pizza man.”
Mr. Matsura smiled, his lips pressing his cheeks into round pink apples. “Nonsense,” he said with a wave of his hand. “You look lovely. And I’m sorry to bother you at your suppertime. It’s just that—would you mind helping me with something? I feel a little like an old coot asking you, but do you know how to tape-record a program on the new recorder?”
The local phone company had been around recently offering great deals and free DVRs if you were willing to switch companies. Nina and I weren’t until we learned we could tape four shows at once.
That was six days ago, and we had approximately fifty-seven hours of Project Runway and Criminal Minds between us.
“Of course I can help you, Mr. M. Let me just leave a note for the pizza man to knock on your door.”
I deposited ChaCha into her dog bed—after she got an appreciative head scratch from Mr. Matsura—and scrawled a note to the pizza man, sticking it to my front door with a bit of scotch tape.
“Okay, show me to your DVR.”
Mr. Matsura handed over the remote control tentatively. “Are you certain you know how to do this? Because I can call the fellow from AT&T. Or ask the super.”
I rolled my eyes good-naturedly. “Mr. Matsura! Your show will probably be off the air by the time you get the super up here. It’s easy; let me show you.”
I blinked, my eyes working hard to focus in the dim light. Each time my eyelids fluttered a sharp pain pierced my skull, shooting a dagger-like ache through my eyes. I groaned and pressed my palms flat against my temples; I was surprised to find my fingers sticky. The pounding in my head intensified and I started to make out the things in front of me—an expanse of white, thin blades, an awkward shadow. I was lying on my back, staring up at a ceiling fan, my shoulder blades grinding into the hard wood floor underneath me. I pressed myself to my feet and wobbled a bit, shuffling to get my balance, squinting against the pain in my head that continued to thunder, growing more intense with every breath. I heard a loud thump and I whirled around when the door behind me splintered and blew open. I stumbled backward, shocked, falling hard on my backside, elbows on the floor.
“Sophie Lawson, freeze!”
But I wasn’t about to move. I was bolted to the floor, my eyes fixed on what had tripped me. He lay there, his eyes fixed on mine. They were cold, hard, unblinking. He was dead.
Mr. Matsura’s head was lolled to the side, his mouth hanging slightly open, lips ashen.
“Oh my God,” I heard myself whisper. I wanted to reach out and touch him, to help him. He couldn’t be dead; we had just spoken this afternoon.
“Mr. Matsura?”
The officer who had kicked open the door made his way to me now and roughly shoved a meaty hand under my arm, yanking me up.
“Oh, thank God you’re here.” I looked back at Mr. Matsura, a sob choking in my throat. “Mr. Matsura—we need to call an ambulance.”
“The coroner is on his way.”
“The coroner? Are you sure?”
“What? You don’t trust your own handiwork?”
“What? What are you—”
The officer—whose name badge read Houston—pulled my arms behind me and snapped a pair of cold metal cuffs around my wrists.