Page 17 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

Roy is approximately seven hundred years old, exclusively wears blue button-downs with a different food stain on each one, and the top of his head comes up to my boobs, which is convenient for him, since most of the time, that’s where he’s looking.

Forehead still throbbing, I try to sneak in, but right as I reach his apartment, Roy flings the door open and sidles into the hall, blocking my way. I am extremely not in the mood to hear his usual gossip about other tenants’ communicable diseases and medical procedures, but instead he squares off with me, boob to eyeball, and goes, “Someone just came looking for you.”

Blood instantly ices in my veins. My voice shakes as I ask, “Who? When?”

“A man. In a hurry. Few minutes ago,” he says, very pleased with himself. “I let him up to your apartment.”

“Youwhat?” I shriek.

“Well, I didn’t let himinto your place,” he says, clarifying. “Just up to the door. Not a friend of yours, I take it?”

I gaze up the stairs.

Holy shit. The alderman. Here. Poodle Dude sent him.

No, Roy, definitely not a friend.

My heart is pounding, heart attack style.

“Is he still up there?” I whisper.

“What do I look like, a snoop?” Roy says defensively and, feelings clearly hurt, slams his door.

Alone in the stairwell, I debate my next move. I’m tempted to run away and maybe start a new life in a new city under a new name, like a DIY witness protection sort of thing. Upside: I’ve never liked my name. Downside: I will definitely lose my security deposit.

Reluctantly, I creep up the stairs as quietly as I can, which is not very because the stairway is old and creaky asfuck.It smells like Victorian ghosts, and I have no intention of joining them today.

At the top landing, I peer around the corner, and, seeing no one standing menacingly in front of 3C, I finally exhale. The hallway is short, with no shadowy corners or alcoves to hide in. The alderman must have come by to intimidate me. Damn, these guys workfast. Did he leave anything behind? A note, say? Or, I don’t know, a horse head?

There’s nothing obvious lying around, so I lift the gross old doormat that came with the apartment. Nothing under there but grimy, threadbare carpet. I’malmostrelieved until I realize he might have picked the lock and could beinside my apartment waiting for me right now.

Careful not to make any noise, I press my ear to the door. Are you supposed to be able to hear through wood? I don’t hear anything, so I wiggle the doorknob. It’s locked. Okay, would he have gone through the trouble of breaking into my apartment and then locking the door behind him? I feel like no?

I unlock the dead bolt slowly and try to subtly ease the door open,just in case there’s an ambush waiting for me on the other side—but of course it’s humid, so the wood has swelled, and I have no choice but to throw myself against the door repeatedly, wedging my shoulder in just the right spot to get it to unstick.

Extremelyunsubtle.

When the door finally gives way, I stumble into the apartment and instinctively brace myself for another blow to the head. Would that be a thing an alderman would do? I have no idea. When it doesn’t happen, I glance around, the tension unbearable as I am forced to scan my grim studio apartment, that yes, fine, gets lots of light and has wood floors, but also has exactly three pieces of furniture: a double bed on the metal frame that comes with the mattress, a faded pink velour armchair I got off Facebook Marketplace, and a small, round side table I brought from my parents’ house. It barely looks like anybody lives here—I haven’t hung anything up, not a single photo or poster.

This would be a very depressing place to get murdered by a low-level government official.

Or murdered by anybody, I guess.

After a few moments of silence and no head-bashing, I’m thinking about letting my guard down...

... just as a skull-shatteringclank clank clankexplodes from the corner of the apartment. I whip around and scream.

The fact that I’m screaming scares me even more, and so it’s at least twenty more seconds of CLANKing and even louder screaming before I realize the CLANKing is the 1980s beige fridge, just trying to do its job.

“I thought we werefriends!” I holler, kicking the side of the fridge.

Okay. I am yelling at a kitchen appliance.

I need backup.

“Hiiiiiii,” I say as Hannah’s boyfriend Kenji opens the door.

“Oh,” he says, instead of hi. “Hannah didn’t mention you were coming.”