The next morning, I don't even pretend to ignore the note.
It's waiting for me, folded neat as origami just inside my door. I don't touch it. Not yet. Instead, I stand there staring at it like it might explode. My eyes drift down the hall to the door of 4B.
Adrian Lorne.
I don't know much about him except that he moved in two months ago, he always wears dark colors, and I've never seen him speak to anyone in the building. That is, until yesterday—when I caught his shadow delivering one of these letters.
I pick up the note, slide it into my pocket unread, and step into the hall. My bare feet make soft pats on the carpet as I cross to his door. My heart is going way too fast for a conversation with a neighbor.
I knock.
Nothing.
I knock again, harder this time. A faint shuffle from inside. Then the sound of a lock turning.
The door opens just enough for one dark eye to appear. His gaze flicks over me in a way that makes me suddenly aware of my hair sticking up on one side.
"Yes?" His voice is low, measured, like he's already weary of this conversation.
I hold up the note. "This yours?"
His gaze drops to it, then back to me. His expression doesn't change. "What makes you think that?"
"I saw you," I say. "Last night. Sliding one under my door. So unless we have an entire hallway full of tall, broad-shouldered paper enthusiasts—"
The corner of his mouth almost curves. Almost. "Maybe you shouldn't read them."
"That's not an answer."
"No," he agrees.
I blink. "You're not even going to deny it?"
"Would you believe me if I did?"
I open my mouth, then close it. "Okay, fine. Why the hell are you leaving these? How do you know these things?"
He studies me for a long moment. His eyes are a shade of gray that looks almost silver in the thin light spilling from his apartment. There's something behind them, a weight, like he's carrying an answer he doesn't want to give.
"I just do," he says finally.
"That's not good enough."
His hand tightens on the door. "It's the only answer you're getting."
I step closer, lowering my voice. "You realize how creepy this is, right? Predicting my coffee spills? Telling me where to walk? Who are you?"
For a moment, I think he's going to slam the door in my face. Instead, he leans just slightly into the doorway, close enough for me to catch a faint scent—clean, sharp, like rain on metal.
"You don't want to know," he says quietly.
"That's not true."
His gaze drops briefly to my pocket where the folded note rests, then returns to my face. "I'm telling you this once—don't trust me."
Before I can respond, he closes the door.
The lock clicks.
I stand there for several long seconds, staring at the wood grain like it might suddenly give me answers. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.
I pull the note from my pocket and unfold it.
If you open your door tonight at 12:17 a.m., you'll see the truth.
I press my lips together, reading it again. And again. My throat feels tight, but there's a strange pull low in my stomach, the kind you get when you know you're about to do something reckless.
Because the thing is—he's right.
I really do want to know.