Technically, it was the Walk of Shame. Cassie had an unplanned sleepover at her boyfriend’s apartment and is now traveling back home on the subway in the exact same clothes she wore last night, but she doesn’t feel shameful. She had a great time last night—at least, after Joel closed the blinds. He was great, three times over. As she sits on the train between a dozing businessman and a girl with a bullring through her nose, she feels like she is glowing.
Joel left early for his shift, but stuck a note under her phone that said, “Can we get dinner tonight? Also, TAKE A CAB.” And then a twenty-dollar bill underneath. She left it behind. She feels uncomfortable about taking any money from him, and in general doesn’t like the idea of having sex with a guy and finding money left for her after it’s over. He has no idea about the extent of her financial woes—it’s not something she wants to talk about. She loves the way he looks at her, and she worries he might look at her differently if he knew the whole truth.
Cassie makes it to her apartment building in forty-five minutes. The gray-white building with the tattered green awning is not nearly as nice as where Joel lives, but it’s much nicer than the tenement that Zoe lives in. This cozy one-bedroom apartment was also gifted to her by Grandma Bea in the will, and now she owns it, free and clear.
Grandma Bea and Grandpa Marv bought the apartment after their kids had all moved out. It was their retirement home. Cassie’s mother would always remark on how tiny it was. Don’t you two trip over one another? But Bea and Marv never got in each other’s way. They loved their tiny little haven. Whenever Cassie came to visit, Marv would be reading a book in the living room, and Bea would be baking in the kitchen. The apartment still smells like chocolate chip cookies.
Cassie loves the apartment and all the memories she has here. In the next year, she will be forced to sell it. She should have sold it a long time ago, but she stupidly clings to it. It’s home to her. She’ll wear the same jacket she’s had since high school and eat ramen noodles every night, but she doesn’t want to give up her home.
But if she doesn’t, it will be taken. Or worse.
When she gets inside, the first thing Cassie does is go to her mailbox. There was a time in the past when it used to be fun to get mail. Like, when she was ten. Now she holds her breath every time she opens
that metal mailbox. The squeak of the door makes her heart jump, like a trained response. But today it’s just the usual assortment of junk mail and only one bill for the electricity. There’s nothing in the mailbox that spoils her glow from last night.
Mrs. Richards holds the elevator door for her, and she leaps in just before it slides shut, clutching her purse to her chest. Mrs. Richards gives her a pleasant smile, and Cassie can tell the elderly woman is eager to make conversation. She and Grandma Bea used to be friends.
“How are you, Cassandra dear?” Mrs. Richards asks.
“Fine.” She pats her hair, hoping Mrs. Richards can’t tell she spent the night at a man’s apartment. She suspects her elderly neighbor wouldn’t approve. “How about you?”
“Oh, the usual.” Mrs. Richards rolls her eyes in a way that reminds Cassie of Grandma Bea. “The arthritis in my back is acting up. I’m telling you—don’t get old.”
Cassie laughs, but it’s an expression that always makes her uneasy. Don’t get old. How do you keep from getting old? Everyone ages, so the only way to keep from getting old is to die young.
The elevator lurches on the second floor like it always does. When Cassie first moved here, she’d have panic attacks in this elevator, which creaked and groaned with every turning of the gears overhead. On top of that, it’s about the size of a coffin. Being this close to Mrs. Richards and sharing the small amount of air in this tiny enclosed space is enough to shoot up her pulse every time.
Mrs. Richards, on the other hand, seems blissfully ignorant of the elevator’s potential to be a deathtrap. “Do you have a beau?” she asks.
Cassie forces a smile. “Yes, I do.”
“Very good.” The older woman nods her approval. “Will you be getting married soon?”
She snorts, although maybe it’s not so funny. Despite Joel’s insistence that he’s not thinking about marriage or kids this early in the relationship, he must be when all his friends are at that point. “We’ll see,” she says.
They both get off on the fifth floor, and Cassie lets out the sigh of relief she always does when she steps out of the elevator. Mrs. Richards lives in the apartment two doors down from her, so they must both go by Cassie’s apartment. So Mrs. Richards is standing right next to her when they get an eyeful of what’s written on Cassie’s door in crimson paint:
SLUT.
Cassie stares at the word, her body frozen. Mrs. Richards clasps her hand over her mouth and murmurs, “Oh, dear.” Cassie knows she needs to do something or say something, but she’s not sure what. Someone called her a slut on her apartment door. Someone who knows who she is and where she lives and can get into her building.
And the worst thing is, it’s the same color paint that was on the door to her store.
“How horrible,” Mrs. Richards declares. “Who would do such a thing?”
Cassie has no idea. Given that until last night, she hadn’t had sex in over two years, it’s laughable that someone would call her a slut. But there’s a part of her that wonders if the person who wrote this slur on her door knows exactly what she did last night. And isn’t happy about it. There’s only one person she can think of who might feel that way.
Francesca.
Francesca—the faceless but beautiful woman who occupied Joel’s heart before she did. Francesca, who is a great cook and clearly better liked by his friends. Francesca, who is perfect.
Mrs. Richards is looking at her differently now, perhaps noticing for the first time that she’s dressed in clothes to go out for the night, even though it’s early in the morning. Mrs. Richards must realize she’s doing the Walk of Shame. And for the first time, Cassie feels ashamed.
“You should call the police,” Mrs. Richards says.
Cassie nods. She needs to call the police. Of course she does.
Except if the police come, they’ll want to go into her apartment. They won’t just stand outside the door, will they? And if they come inside, they might find what Grandpa Marv left behind.
And that would lead to questions Cassie can’t answer.
Anyway, the police never figured out who threw that paint at the door to her store, so how likely are they to solve this crime? Really, Joel is the one she should call. Especially since she’s beginning to suspect Francesca could be the one behind all this.
Cassie reaches into her purse for her phone, prepared to call Joel and tell him what she suspects. But before she puts through the call, she hesitates. She’s suddenly not so sure she wants to share her suspicions with him.
Despite the fact that they’re broken up, Cassie knows that Francesca still occupies an important place in Joel’s heart. He’s oddly protective of her. That’s why whenever Cassie even hints about her, he quickly changes the subject. Not that it would be better if he trashed her—
badmouthing the ex is a quality Cassie finds distasteful—but she doesn’t like the way his eyes soften when someone says her name. She would bet anything there’s a small part of him that misses her. She’s scared that if there’s any great love story here, it’s the one between Joel and Francesca.
So Cassie puts her phone back in her purse. She doesn’t call the police. She doesn’t call Joel. She tells nobody.
