The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

I try the door to the town house, but it’s locked. Outside the front door there’s a row of brass mail slots, the kind that open with a small key, and an intercom buzzer with peeling paper labels stuck next to each button.

I spend a long minute inspecting the buzzer, daring myself to push one of the buttons and get let in. There’s one that says FATIMA, which I think is for the palm reader. Then there’s one that says EINBERG, with the first letter missing, and one that says HERNANDEZ in pretty cursive. The other four are either blank, or whitened from rain.

I cup my hands around my eyes and peer into the stairwell, blocking out the yellow summer sun. Honestly, other than the palm reader on the second floor, it doesn’t look like the apartments are occupied. No window-unit air conditioners jut out over the street. No window propped open with a spinning box fan. No catalogues on the floor. No menus.

I take a deep breath, roll my head back and forth on my shoulders to loosen up, and push my thumb against one of the unlabeled buzzers.

Nothing happens.

“Dammit,” I say aloud, stepping back to look up at the indifferent fa?ade of the town house. It stares back at me, giving away nothing.

I don’t understand. She definitely hasn’t left. I’d have seen her. I was sitting right by the pizzeria window. I had a clear view of the apartment building door. I watched the door the entire time, even when I was filming the Roman kid.

I push the buzzer labeled EINBERG.

Nothing.

“Ha,” a voice laughs behind me. “Good luck with that.”

“Huh?” I spin, startled.

I’m met with the amused expression of Maddie, in cutoffs and ripped fishnets and combat boots and tank top. Her bangs perfectly straight, hair braided into Princess Leia coils around her ears. She’s laughing at me, and I’m gripped with irrational panic, like she’s caught me doing something wrong.

“Making social calls?” she asks me, eyebrows arched. “I hope you’ve got a calling card. There’s nobody here.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, staring back into the depths of the stairwell.

“I mean, there’s Fatima Blavatsky’s. But the rest of the building’s empty.”

Her smile is getting mischievous, mainly by seeming to take over one side of her mouth more than the other. She shifts the grocery bag she’s carrying onto her hip, cocking a combat boot out in defiance.

“Empty? Are you sure?” It comes out more suspicious than I mean. But I can’t tell if she’s just trying to mess with my head. I mean, I saw Annie go inside.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “I’m sure.”

Empty? So where did Annie go, if it was empty? If she wanted to brush me off, she could have just said no. I hear no from girls all the time. More often than not. My ex-girlfriend could say no like it was going out of style. Why would Annie pretend to like me if she didn’t?

“How do you know?” I ask.

Maddie sighs and puts the grocery bag down at her feet, stretching her arms overhead. I can hear her spine pop when she stretches.

“I know,” she says patiently, “because I was squatting here until three weeks ago. Then they came through and cleared everybody out.”

“You were . . . What?” I’m confused. She seems kind of young to not have anywhere to live.

Maddie shakes her head, dismayed by how dense I am. “Squatting. I told you. Come on. I’ll let you carry the bag, and then if you’re really nice, you can buy me breakfast.”

“But—” I start to protest.

Maddie’s already picked up her grocery bag, which upon closer inspection mostly contains takeout boxes and spotted fruit, and started walking back down the steps to the sidewalk.

“Hurry up,” she calls to me.

I glance one last time into the deserted stairwell, disappointment crushing the breath out of me, pulling my mouth down. I don’t understand. I thought we were . . . I really . . . She must have felt it. How could she not have felt it, too?

I sling my bag over my shoulder, shake my head, and turn away.