By the time I pull up in front of my apartment building, I’m sick to my stomach with guilt. I feel terrible for not being able to give Lance the answer he wanted.

I lean my head on the headrest and close my eyes. An image of Lance’s face flashes across the screen of my mind. Anxiety spurts through my body.

After what happened today, I could end up losing him, even though it’s the last thing in the world that I want. It seems I’m damned if I tell him, and I’m damned if I don’t. I feel as though whatever I decide to do wouldn’t be the right thing.

I open the car door at the same time I open my eyes. As I always do every time I come home, my gaze sweeps my surroundings.

A woman is walking a rather active poodle, a man with a bushy beard pushes a cart filled to the brim with plastic bags, and another woman picks up a toy that had fallen to the ground and hands it back to the baby inside a stroller. Nothing out of the ordinary. The day has started, and people are going about their untroubled lives.

I reach into my bag for my keys. The door to my apartment building swings open before I can use the key.

“Hey, Jia,” Denise, a woman in her late twenties with an uncanny resemblance to a Barbie doll throws me a smile. As usual, her clothes fit her to perfection, and her makeup is flawless.

Today she’s wearing a black bell sleeve dress with velvet pumps. Pearl earrings drip from her ears, and her hair is pulled into a smooth, glossy ponytail.

Even though I’d never been one to care too much about what I’m wearing, I feel like a frump next to her. Every time I see her, so perfectly put together, I can’t help wondering whether her life is as perfect as she looks.

Since I moved into the apartment three years ago, she’d worked hard at trying to make friends with me. She had been one of the first people to welcome me into the building, bringing me a homemade chocolate cake that I never ate because I don’t have a sweet tooth. But no matter how much she tried to win me over as a friend, she failed.

The moment she started our first real conversation at a nearby café, I shut off. It became too tiresome to listen to her talk about how beautiful she is, how perfect her real estate job is, how she was once Miss New Jersey. Not once did she ask a question about me. That was fine since talking about myself is not something I’m keen on doing. Before I entered the world of the LaClaires, I was a complete loner. I felt safer that way.

The only time we bonded for a moment was when she asked me for a hundred dollars to add to her rent money, a couple of months ago. Even though we weren’t friends, I’d given her the money because I know how it feels to be in a desperate situation. She’d promised that she would pay me back, but she never did. After a while, I let it go.

“Going to work?” I catch the door before it slams shut.

“Yes, girl. Have to pay the rent. I’m so behind.” She beams at me. “And where are you coming from so early this morning?” She winks. “Let me guess, you spent another night with Mr. Money.”

“His name is Lance.”

“Oh, right.” She shrugs. “You should introduce me sometime. Maybe I could end up with one of the gorgeous LaClaire brothers.”

“Yeah.” I force a smile. “Maybe I will.”

“You always say that.”

“Really? I never noticed.”

“Anyway, I’ve got to go. The world is waiting for me to paint it red.” She gives me a small wave and walks off, her hips swaying from side to side.

Inside the elevator on the way to the fourth floor, I catch sight of myself in the dirty mirror. My eyes are red rimmed and puffy. I’m amazed that Denise didn’t notice. It’s so obvious that I was crying. It’s for the best. I’m not in the mood to answer questions, anyway.

I inhale the cigarette-tainted air and lean my head back against the large mirror.

On my way to my apartment, I notice there’s graffiti on the wall again. Norman, the landlord keeps painting over the walls every couple of months, but someone always comes back to display his insults on the walls.

It had taken me a long time to bring Lance to my place, uncomfortable that it lacks the luxury he’s accustomed to. When he finally got me to bring him over, it took me by surprise how normal he acted. He seemed so at home in my apartment. He even made chicken soup for me in my tiny kitchen.

Now, although we spend most of our time at his place, he occasionally visits me. Last time he visited, about two months ago, he hinted at me moving in with him. I brushed him off immediately and changed the subject. I wasn’t ready then. I’m not ready now.

I like being able to escape to my own place whenever the demons from my past decide to come out and haunt me. My apartment might be small and far from fancy, but it’s my shelter. Leaving it would feel like leaving behind an old, loyal friend.

I push the key into the lock, and the door opens easily—too easily. Even though I feel safe in my apartment most of the time, the last month was different. I keep getting the uncomfortable feeling that I’m being watched, even when I’m home.

As I walk into the room that serves as both my bedroom and the living room, the air feels different, as though it’s been disturbed. There’s also a certain smell in the air, mingling with the fresh lemon scent I like to surround myself with. But it’s too faint for me to catch it, to study it.

My chest stutters as I turn back to the door. I slide the key into the lock again from the inside, locking and unlocking the door a few times. Something is different. The click I usually hear is gone.

It terrifies me to have the thought, but it seems as though someone might have tampered with my lock. I bend to study the area around the lock, and the cold fingers of dread grip my heart. I notice faint, but obvious scratches around it. My suspicions are correct. Someone was here, inside my apartment.

I snap back to a standing position, dread crawling across my skin.

I’m like a mad woman as I run around the apartment, checking to see if each piece of furniture is in its place, dropping onto my knees to peer under the couch, searching for signs that someone had touched my things or left a piece of themselves behind.

Nothing seems out of place. The windows are closed, and everything is neatly folded inside the teal wardrobe that stands next to a matching dresser on one wall.

Maybe I’m imagining it, making myself crazy. I sit on the edge of my bed and drop my head into my hands, forcing my heart to calm down. When strength returns to my body, I push myself to my feet and approach the kitchen.

I open the fridge to get something to drink. That’s when I see it—the sign I’d been looking for. A beer standing next to my carton of milk. A suffocating sensation tightens my throat, making it hard for me to swallow.

The bottle of beer is not mine. I never buy beer or any other kind of alcohol, for that matter. Since Lance is a recovering alcoholic, I try not to have alcohol in my apartment in case he happens to visit.

The bottle is open, which means someone was actually sitting in my apartment drinking it. Sheer, black fright sweeps through me at the thought that the intruder might have waited for me.

Choking back a cry, I grip the bottle and tip its contents into the sink. I almost gag as the smell rushes into my nostrils. I toss the bottle into the trash can and spin around. I felt like I was being watched again, but no one’s there. But he’s here—not in this room, but close.

In a daze, I push through the thick air and crash onto my bed, and the mattress squeaks. I have to pull myself together. I have to think rationally. I can’t let fear take over. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s really only my imagination.

No. I felt that bottle. I smelled the beer. I saw the scratches on the lock. When I last saw Kirk Dillon, he said he will find me. Looks like he has.

I’ve been living a carefree life for seven years, pretending the past never happened, pretending I was someone else, only for it all to come crashing down in one day.

But I can’t put my life on hold. I can’t hide. If I don’t live my life as I’ve done for the past few years, people will start asking questions. Lance and his family will become suspicious. I have to pretend that I’m not terrified of losing everything, that I’m not on the verge of getting my cover blown.

Trying to hold back tears and mostly failing, I undress and change into jeans and a blush, stretch blouse. I can’t let the fear of the past stop me from living my life. If he shows up, I’ll find a way to handle it. I’m a strong woman now.

It takes me only a few minutes to finish getting dressed. I brush my raven hair and pull it into a ponytail. I’m a mixture of Chinese and African-American heritage, but my hair is bone straight like my Chinese mother’s, and my skin is the color of coffee diluted with a lot of milk.

I cover the shadows under my eyes with concealer, and hesitate only for a moment before heading back out the door.

On my way to Grace’s Touch, I stop by the landlord’s apartment on the ground floor.

Norman opens the door with a smile. The smell of old pizza escapes from the room. He has always been kind to me, and he appreciates that I pay my rent on time every single month. But his kindness shot to a whole other level when he found out—from a tabloid magazine—that I’m dating Lance LaClaire.

“It’s that time of year again.” I try to keep my voice from breaking.

“Yes, ma’am.” He bobs his head, and a lock of thick, gray hair that matches his beard plops onto his wrinkled forehead. “I’ll get it done for you today.”

“Thank you.” I like that I don’t have to explain to him what I mean. He already knows. Every year as a tenant in this building, I’ve asked him to change my lock. I pay him so much money to do it that he stopped asking questions.