both listened, but I couldn’t hear the sound of anyone coming, and after a minute, I shrugged. “Maybe he’s out.”
Stevie turned the key in the lock and stepped inside, and I followed behind her. It was dark, and I hit the light that was right by the door and looked around. We had walked into the living area—the small kitchen was in front of us, and to the side, a couch and two chairs were positioned in front of the television. Down a hallway, I could see three doors, one cracked open, presumably the bedrooms and bathroom. It was small, and I knew New York apartments were, in theory, but it was something else seeing one up close. Compared to this, Teri’s guesthouse was a mansion.
“It’s so small,” I whispered to Stevie.
“I know,” she whispered back. “My dad’s is a little bigger, but not that much.”
“Um, hi,” I called into the empty, quiet space, just in case there was someone there who wasn’t expecting two teenagers from Connecticut to barge in and start judging their apartment. “We’re… friends of Mallory’s? We’re here to drop something off?” We both waited in silence for another minute, but still, nobody emerged and Brad seemed to be MIA, so I walked farther into the apartment, Stevie following me, the door slamming shut behind us.
“Okay,” I said, as Stevie put the red wallet on the kitchen counter and set the keys next to it. “Do you think we need to leave a note or something?”
“Probably not,” Stevie said. “I mean, it’s not like Mallory’s roommate won’t be looking for it.” She set her clutch down on the counter and took a step farther into the kitchen, peering around.
“What?”
“I was just wondering. You know that stereotype about people who live in New York turning their ovens into closets?”
“They what?”
“To save space, and because they don’t cook. I was just curious.…” She pulled open the oven door and seemed disappointed when it was just an oven and not filled with shoes or sweaters. She turned to me, looking affronted. “It appears that Sex and the City has been lying to me.”
I laughed. “Well, maybe Brad is a big cook or something.” A second later I heard a scrabbling sound, and my blood ran cold. “Did you hear that?”
Stevie had also turned pale. “Do you think it’s a mouse?”
I would sometimes see mice darting across our yard back home, but we lived in the woods, practically. You didn’t mind seeing or hearing critters there, because it was their territory. But now, I wanted to crawl out of my skin, and I understood why in movies, when people saw mice, they were always shrieking and jumping on chairs. “Or maybe a rat,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “It sounded loud.”
Stevie shuddered. “Oh my god.” She froze as the sound got louder—and a second later, a white-and-tan blur ran out of the room with the door cracked open. “What is that?” Stevie asked, her voice panicky.
“It’s a dog,” I said as I realized it was. I laughed with relief as I understood that the scrabbling sound was just the dog’s nails on the apartment floors. The dog was small, definitely not more than ten pounds, and low to the ground. It was running around the apartment, only stopping to jump up and spin in a circle, and then start running again. It was very fluffy—it looked like a Pomeranian, though it was moving a little too fast for me to tell.
“Oh,” Stevie said, now backing up against the kitchen counters, not looking thrilled by this information. “That’s—good.”
“Come here, bud,” I said, bending down to try and pet it. The dog stopped mid-twirl and ran up to me. It did not seem to mind at all that it had never seen us before, and practically threw itself at me, licking my face aggressively along with happy little yipping sounds. “Hi,” I said, scratching him—I could see it was a him—behind his ears. This dog seemed to be 90 percent fluff, like if he got wet he would be a fraction of the size. I looked at the tag swinging from his blue leather collar. BRAD was engraved on one side, with a phone number on the back. “Well, that’s one mystery solved,” I said, straightening up, as the dog—Brad—started running in circles around my legs.
“What?” Stevie asked, not moving from where she was still pressed against the counter. For someone who really tried to pretend she wasn’t afraid