Nora couldn't sleep anymore.
It had been three nights. Three nights staring at the ceiling of the ground-floor apartment, eyes wide open, her phone resting on the nightstand like a ticking time bomb. The screen lit up every hour—Vanessa. Always Vanessa. Short, clipped, impatient messages.
“Report.”
“What did she say today?”
“Answer me.”
Nora didn't answer anymore. Not since the pool incident.
She'd seen it from her window. Tatum on her knees on the wet tile, her robe slipping from her shoulders, silent tears falling. And Jimmy kneeling beside her, picking up the fabric and draping it over her shoulders with a tenderness Nora had never seen in anyone. Ever. Not Vanessa. Not Williams. Not anyone who shared her blood.
Something had broken that night. Not all at once—slowly, like a crack in a load-bearing wall. Since then, every message from Vanessa made her nauseous. Every report she'd sent came back to her like a slap. Every one of Tatum's smiles—the real smile, the one that asked for nothing—tightened her throat.
In the morning, she went upstairs to have coffee at Tatum's place. Like always. The oversized cardigan, the cookies, the gentle voice. Tatum talked to her about Jimmy, her work, her plans. She trusted Nora. She told her things you only tell your friends—the real ones, the ones who don't betray you.
And Nora smiled. And Nora listened. And Nora felt like throwing up.
“You look tired,” Tatum said one morning.
“I didn't sleep well. Exams.”
“You're working too hard. Stay for dinner tonight. Jimmy's making pasta.”
“I can't. I have studying to do.”
She was lying. She hadn't opened a book in two weeks. She spent her evenings sitting in the dark, her phone turned off, listening to the silence of the apartment and the sound of her own cowardice.
On Thursday, she ran into Raphael in the stairwell. He was coming upstairs with a case of beer—probably for Timothy. He stopped when he saw her.
“You okay, Nora?”
“I'm fine.”
“You look like someone who's not.”
“Thanks. That's sweet of you.”
He laughed. The big smile, the brown curls, the square jaw. Raphael Music—the bartender, the charmer, the guy everyone liked and no one really knew. Except that day, he wasn't smiling to charm her. He looked at her with something that resembled concern.
“If you need to talk,” he said, “I'm at The Counter every night. Listening to people is my job.”
“Your job is serving drinks.”
“Same thing. People don't come to the bar to drink. They come so someone will look at them.”
He went upstairs. Nora stayed in the stairwell. She thought about what he'd said—“so someone will look at them.” No one looked at her. Vanessa directed her. Williams ignored her. Tatum looked at her, yes—but Tatum was looking at a lie. Tatum saw the girl in the cardigan, the adorable student, the perfect neighbor. Not Nora. Not the real Nora.
The real Nora was a spy. The real Nora was betraying the only person who had treated her like a human being.
That evening, she turned her phone back on. Fourteen messages from Vanessa. She read them all. The last one said:
“If you don't answer tomorrow, I'll send Williams.”
Nora turned off the phone. She set it on the table. She sat on the bed and stared at the wall for a very long time.
Then she grabbed her jacket and went out into the November night.