Of course, if it were happening to my mom, the CSA would’ve lined up their own people from the start. They can’t have their director being targeted by anyone with a fake company truck and a convincing uniform.
“Come in,” I say. It’ll be fine. I’ll get Reese to do a thorough check with me when we get home, and then I’ll sweep for bugs when she’s gone.
I lead the electrician into the kitchen, and he sets down his toolbox without taking his eyes off theplastic draped and stapled to my wall frame. “They took down all the Sheetrock, huh?”
“Yep,” I say as Reese comes down the stairs, looking adorable in red tights and a bright yellow cardigan over a navy blue dress with a pattern of illustrated books. And, of course, she’s wearing matching bright red glasses, too.
“This sheeting is all that separates you and your neighbor?” He looks at me. “And you’re okay with that?”
No. No, I am not. Instead of voicing that, though, I say with a shrug. “I wasn’t at first, but…It’s not so bad.”
“Only because our neighbor is cute and Charlie is crushing on him,” Reese says.
I turn to her and hiss, “Shh! Owen can hear!”
Okay, Imightbe crushing on Owen. But only because he’s adorable in every way, and it’d be hard not to. And it’s true about the wall not being so bad. I’ve learned way more about Owen than I ever could have by going through his garbage, like Zoe once suggested. You can hear a lot through this wall, and with the fuzzy shape of him that I can see as he moves around—at least when he’s within about ten feet of the fake wall—I’ve got a pretty clear picture of how his day goes.
I know what time he wakes up and goes to bed, how many times he reheats hisdinner in the microwave because he forgot about it, that he mutters when he is puzzling through work plans, and that he always stops at 9 p.m. to make a cup of hot cocoa.
I also know that every morning, he sings his to-do list. And he doesn’t simply read his list in a sing-song voice. He picks a random tune but makes up his own words. Like yesterday, he sang about removing plaster and decorative features on balcony boxes to the tune of Queen’sWe Will Rock You. And this morning, he was singing about checking on some insulation to the tune ofHey Judeby the Beatles. A few days ago, he was a little further away and harder to hear, but I’m pretty sure I heard him singing about double-checking that a ceiling fan wasn’t haunted to the tune ofUptown Funk.
But last night, after realizing how much I know about Owen, a stab of panic hit me. Because if I know way more than I should know about Owen, then he knows way more about me than what I’m willing to share.
And the truth I try to hide from everyone but am not always successful in doing is that I’m a big, fat, scaredy-cat, and I just want to go hide under the couch and pretend I don’t exist until someone brings snacks. I don’t want to be seen deeply. I want to be seen surface-ly. I want to choose what is seen. Being seen deeply feels vulnerable. And vulnerability feels dangerous.
So I’m trying hard to keep things on the surface. Just fun, neighborly flirting. Nothing more. Like leaving notes for each other, ever since I left that sticky note on his side of the plastic two nights ago.
Our notes have mostly said things likeI hope your day’s more functional than our kitchen wall, orThanks for not judging my cleaning playlist last night, orToday’s forecast: 20% chance of rain. Indoors. I’ve kind of been living for it. Just harmless surface banter. Nothing deep.
My reward for keeping things light and neighborly was coming downstairs this morning to find a little gift bag waiting for me at the foot of our makeshift door. The tag said,Because I interrupted your reading with my phone call.
Inside the bag, I found a candle with a label that said,Smells like shared wall. Then, in smaller print below,(Just kidding. Smells like brown sugar and vanilla.)There was a colorful bookmark with the wordsGood fences make good neighbors. Shared walls make romantic comedies.I think I might’ve laughed even harder than I did when he gave me the wooden plaque.
And there is nothing like starting the day with a good laugh. Soon after, I put a sticky note on his side of the plastic that said,If your goal was to make me belly laugh before breakfast, mission accomplished. (And thank you.)
I keep telling myself that I am thrilled to live next to a fun and neighborly neighbor. Butboy, does my stomach flutter every single time I see a note or a package from him, or hear his voice, or see his fuzzy silhouette, and I’m having a hard time just keeping things neighborly here. Reese is right. I’m full-on living in Crushville. Even though I said I wouldn’t. And even though it freaks me out that he can see so much into our lives.
I’m trying to hold back. To put the brakes on things. But also, I got an idea for a little something to leave Owen tonight, and it’s really exciting me. I just need to pick up a few more items on my lunch break.
Okay, maybe my resolve to hold back is weakening. I need to work on that.
I say goodbye to the electrician, ask him to lock up when he leaves, and tell him that if he needs to leave for lunch, to make sure he locks up then, too. Reese seems to have no problem leaving while someone is in our townhome. Is she the normal one? Or am I? I grew up in a family of spies. What do I know?
Reese and I leave for work at the same time, each of us pulling out of our driveway and heading in different directions.
All morning, we’ve been going through the info that we downloaded from Aragundi’s servers that relates to the stolen artifacts we’ve been tracing, trying tofigure out how to track down who is behind it. I’ve been working with my brother, Emerson, since he’s the lead analyst, and my brothers Jace and Ledger, since they—along with Miles when he returns from Marseille—will be the ones to run the missions.
Emerson swipes to a heat map on his tablet that shows thefts across Europe and North America. Red and orange markers blink like angry pinpricks. “There’s been a rise in high-value thefts from museums, private collections, and archaeological transports. Mostly small, portable items: coins, scrolls, religious relics. Entry methods are inconsistent, security footage is conveniently fuzzy, and—fun twist—none of the items have shown up on the black market.”
Ledger leans back in his chair. “Let me guess. Ghosts? That would explain the fuzzy security footage and the fact that no alarms go off.”
“Nah,” Jace says. “I think it’s more along the lines of time travelers with really niche hobbies.”
“I don’t know,” I say as I scroll through my tablet. “I’ve been running the timestamps against local calendars. Weirdly, a lot of these thefts go down during festivals, street fairs, or major city-wide events. So my guess is a history-major-turned-criminal who only feels truly alive around fireworks and funnel cake.”
“Not to dismiss any of your theories,” Emerson says, “because those are all…creative, but on aslightly more serious note, one of my analysts flagged a private sale of three fifth-century coins. They were never reported stolen and never listed for auction. Yet somehow, a buyer in Monaco knew to inquire.”
“No, wait—I found a listing I think is related to that sale.” I start searching for the info on my tablet, and my brothers each do the same.
