whole apartment. It’s a pair of tiger wings.
Chris hums to himself as he kicks off his shoes, hangs up his coat, and pauses.
I slouch as low as I can, not that it matters. The back of the couch opens onto the entire room. I’m a sitting duck. Very carefully, I close the laptop and slip it back into place by the table. At least if he finds me, he might not know I touched the laptop.
Then, incredibly, I hear his footsteps move in the opposite direction. For a moment there’s quiet, then the click of the bathroom door closing. My sticker discovery momentarily turned my terror into shock, but now adrenaline floods back in and I bolt to my feet, clambering for the door and bursting into the hallway, not bothering to worry about noise. I forego the elevator and dash to the stairwell, rocketing down three flights as best I can in my boots, the cheap vinyl chafing my calves.
When I finally pause on the sixth floor landing I’m gasping, thighs screaming. It’s hard to tell over the sound of my labored breathing, but I don’t think he followed me. I’m alone. I need a minute to regain my strength and process what I found, but I don’t dare risk it. Not now. Instead I exit into the hallway, joining an elderly couple as they wait for the elevator. The husband gives me a nod, but the wife stares straight ahead, as though I’m invisible.
We ride down in silence and I drag in great gulping mouthfuls of damp winter air when I reach the street. I shrug into my coat and put on my sunglasses, walking in the opposite direction of my apartment, both out of habit, in case someone’s watching me, and because I need time to think. I rack my brain to try to remember if the theater kept any of the memorabilia from Alex’s time running the place, any free pamphlets or pins or stickers that Chris might have picked up from our visit. But I know they didn’t. The new owners, like everyone in town, were desperate to erase the memory of the Carlisles.
But Chris isn’t. I don’t know how he knew about Tiger Wing, but he did. That explains his weird reaction to me bringing him there—he’s not afraid of puppets. He’s afraid of being found out. Because the sticker is not just a decoration, no more than my maps are simply there for the pleasure of looking at them. It’s a reminder. A motivator. And the only connection between me and Tiger Wing is Alex.
13
I HATE CLEANING, BUT desperate times call for desperate measures. This I know too well. It’s why I’m in my mother’s apartment, a stuffy one-bedroom on the east side of town. Alex lived here up until a year or so before the scandal, preferring the illusion of living like his creative counterparts. Unlike his artist friends, however, he lived on a trust fund, not tips made waiting tables. When the novelty wore off, he came back to the penthouse. He said it was because he missed my dad’s cooking; I said it was because he missed me too much to stay away. Only one of us was joking. Only one of us was wrong.
The bedroom closets hold plastic-draped dresses from my mother’s most memorable performances, cartons of heels and ballet flats in near-perfect condition, boxes of hats and costume jewelry. My dad couldn’t bear to part with her things when she passed, so he stashed them here, knowing he couldn’t very well bring dates home to an apartment that was still a shrine to his dead wife.
The rest of the apartment is normal and unremarkable, if a decade out of date and more than a bit dusty. I haven’t been here in years, but we continue to pay the bills, so the power is on but the fridge is empty and there’s no cable. I open every window, letting the cold winter wind sweep in to clear the air as best it can.
Tomorrow is my date with Chris, and this is the address I’m going to text him a few hours before we’re due to meet. By then there’ll be food in the fridge, a newspaper on the coffee table, and a towel in the bathroom, just like a real home. In the morning, I’ll buy a roast chicken at the store, mash potatoes, warm up a pie, then slip a few crushed sleeping pills into his beer, handcuff