Page 46 of You'll Love it Here

She looks at me sincerely. “Thanks, Mona, for trying to help. Maybe we can try this again?”

She looks so scared, and I wish we’d actually caught the fucker. Somehow this outcome is the worst one possible.

“Yeah... for sure,” I say, voice breathless. “We might have to watch the washers too.”

Jane nods solemnly.

We head up the stairs in silence. Carmen is still holding his weird metal dog statue, but I’m too disappointed to deal with that right now. He gives us one last baffled look before splitting off to go back to his suite.

Jane is quiet the rest of the way up, clinging to her laundry basket. I didn’t mean to make her stay out so late when she has to get up for work tomorrow. Suddenly, I’m so mad at myself.

When we reach our hall, Jane pulls out her keys and pushes them into the lock.

I put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

She gives me a tiny, sad grin. “Goodnight, Mona.”

A Norm Moment

When I enter the main floor lobby on Wednesday, my annoyance immediately bubbles. Carmen’s package box is seriously overflowing, and several other boxes litter the floor. Not only that, there’s a bunch of random objects in the box now, like a couple of foam pool noodles and what seems to be the head of a mascot of some kind. It’s like he’s decided this is simply another storage area for him, just like the entirety of the storage unitandwhat I’m sure is in his apartment. I sigh. I’ll have to talk to Carmen about it during his electric inspection on Friday.

Right now, I have to focus on my true mission in this hall.

“Norman Olivers” is a sadly common name. Over fifty profiles populated on Facebook when I searched it this morning. Still, I clicked through them all. Most of them were random dudes not from the area, or who obviously didn’t look like Norm. I scrolled until I found the profile of a mid-fifties self-described “Wannabe Sugar Daddy” from Coeur d’Alene. After that, I decided against social media stalking, lest I ended up finding photos of wiry white pubes as a result.

Back to my field investigation, then.

Truthfully, I can’t get Jane’s miserable expression out of my head. I don’t know why this is so incredibly important to her, but clearly it runs deep. And honestly, Norm’s raised enough red flags at this point that I think it’s worth checking out. When I went intohis suite a few weeks ago, I felt pretty sure he wasn’t a serial killer. But a panty thief? Maybe.

My knock lands on Norm’s door, overtaking the sounds filtering through the ceiling of a TV blaring some daytime show with an overly hyped audience. The walls here really are so paper thin, it’s unbelievable any of us could manage to keep a secret.

I hear movement, but he doesn’t answer immediately. I wait and notice the distinct scent of hot dogs wafting from the apartment at the end of the hall, which makes sense since it’s close to lunchtime.

It hits at once. If I’m smelling Fighting Couple’s hot dog party (or whatever the fuck they’re doing in there), and not the usual vile scent of Norm’s apartment, then Norm must have cleaned out whatever was causing the smell. And at least that’s one problem solved.

I knock one more time. The audience on the TV upstairs screams like they just got told they’re about to be millionaires or that they’re going home with a free cookbook.

Just as I’m about to give up, the knob jangles and the door creaks open.

“Hey, Norm!” I hold up the grease-darkened paper bag I’d picked up from Sami’s. “I brought lunch.”

His eyes widen at the sight of me. He’s in a black golf shirt, black sweats, and bright white socks. “Sorry, what?” He rubs his forehead with the back of his hand.

I hold up the bag again, hoping it might tempt him the way I’d wave a piece of chicken in front of Ernest’s snout. “I brought you a BLT and fries. Sami says that’s your usual.”

“Why?” He looks mildly horrified.

“I believe I owe you an apology for how terribly things went with the electrician.” His tense expression softens slightly, a hint of understanding replacing the terror in his eyes. “So would you maybe want to have lunch with me? It doesn’t have to be here.”

“Oh.” He stiffens. I get the feeling the guy can’t do conflict in any way, and perhaps that’s the only reason he props the door open for me. “Okay.”

I follow him in and push the door shut behind me. I confirm, the rancid odor that overwhelmed me the last time I was here has been completely eradicated. We creak across the wooden floor to his living room. He motions for me to sit on one side of the floral-patterned sofa.

I settle in and take out my sandwich and fries and notice his gaming chair is tucked away neatly under the desk. The surface is tidied, all the half-filled glasses are gone.

I hand him the bag, and he pulls out his sandwich—a steaming, greasy concoction wrapped in paper. I notice the bandage wrapped around his palm. “Hey, how is your hand?”

“It’s okay now,” he says. “I, um, just have to stay off my gaming controller until the stitches can come out.”