“I’ll make dinner,” I repeat. “What’s your favorite food?”
A pause. “Roast chicken. With potatoes.”
“Is that popular in Maryland?”
“I’m from Montana, and it’s popular everywhere.”
“All right. Chicken and potatoes. Your wish is my command.”
“That’s what I like to hear. What’s your address?”
“I’ll text it.”
“Right. And should I bring anything?”
“Just your charming self.”
“Easy enough. I’ll see you Wednesday, Denise.”
“It’s a date, Chris.”
I end the call and watch his picture disappear, returning to the generic sunset screensaver. Then I think about his phone, with the same picture. Probably a burner, like mine. I think of his apartment. No personal photos. Like mine.
I kick off my shoes and cross to my desk, contemplating the lined paper with Who Are You? scrawled at the top of the page, the question still unanswered. I think again of the plants that lined the windows of his apartment when Chris knew I was coming over, the same plants that were missing the second time, the visit unplanned. I watched Alex decorate enough cheap sets to recognize someone staging a scene. Chris’s apartment might not even be his primary residence, but the day I waited for him out front, he showed up, not expecting to see me. So maybe it is his home, albeit a temporary one. And maybe that’s where the answers are.
A high-pitched giggle sounds in the hall, as though Mr. Pedersen and his date are laughing at my desperate, unhinged plan.
I’VE BEEN ACCUSED OF dressing like an escort before, but those were just jealous people and tabloid editors trying to get attention they didn’t deserve. The truth is, if you’re the right kind of escort, nobody notices you at all. For my one and only attempt at faux high-end prostitution, I wear a fitted black dress that hits at the knee, the front cut so deep it nearly exposes my navel. The thin leather straps that criss-cross the torso are a half-assed attempt at modesty, just as the shiny black vinyl boots are a nod to the cold weather. I choose a honey gold wig with long, loose curls to shield my face, and a pair of oversized sunglasses to hide my darting eyes. All told, I’m wearing fifty-nine dollars worth of clothing, ordered online with expedited shipping and a grimace.
I parade back and forth in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, and it’s appalling. I’m dressed the part, but I look more like a newborn giraffe figuring out how legs work than a seasoned professional. My stomach is tangled in knots, and I haven’t stopped sweating since I put on the dress, its polyester smell making my nose itch.
It’s Monday afternoon, the day Chris said he was working, and two days before our phony dinner date. If today goes well and I find what I’m looking for—not that I have any idea what that might be—I’ll toss the burner phone, quit the Food Bank, write my father letters instead of visiting, and vanish all over again.
I dab at my underarms with a tissue, scowling at my reflection and telling myself to get a grip. This will technically be my first time breaking and entering, but the ring of master keys currently tucked in my purse has seen plenty of use. I don’t know if I’ve ever been in this particular apartment illegally, but Alex and I took serious advantage of our keys to the city, so I have some experience strolling into buildings in which I have no business being. If they’ve changed the locks since reselling the apartments, I’ll just stroll back out and dream up a plan B.
I shrug into a dark trench coat, grab my new silver sequined purse, and make sure the hallway is clear before hurrying out and calling the elevator. I keep my head ducked, so anyone who sees me will assume I’m just another one of Mr. Pedersen’s special friends.
I ride down alone and cut through two parking garages in record time. At this point, all I’m guilty of are crimes against fashion, but I still jump at the sound of every car door slam and engine starting, convinced my heels clicking over concrete obscures Chris’s stealthy approach. I shoulder check a dozen times until I nearly walk into a pillar, then give up the pretense and climb the stairs above-ground, four blocks from his building.
I linger in the stairway vestibule where it’s quiet and pull out my burner phone, find my lone contact, and press Call. It rings twice before Chris answers, managing