“You really shouldn’t let him sleep on your bed. It’s cute when they’re puppies, but that’s going to be seventy pounds of conditioned behavior you’ll have to undo sooner than you think.”

“Noted,” she says before turning her phone to face my way. It’s the Uptown Updogs home page on her mobile browser.

“That’s the Uptown Updogs website,” I state as blankly as possible.

“No it’s not,” she retorts. “That’s your website.”

I freeze and look to my door, a foot away. I can hear Dad’s soccer game on the TV.

“As I said . . . ,” she repeats in a lower tone before heading toward the lobby, expecting me to follow. “We need to talk.”

Oh, eff my freaking life to hell right now.

Five

I oblige and follow Corinne out of the building quietly. We begin to walk in complete silence. She’s either waiting for a confession on my part or, more likely, she’s read some book like The Art of War and learned speaking first is a sign of submission. An amateur.

The walk takes us down the street and onto Broadway, bustling with passersby, and back up on West End Avenue. It is, for all intents and purposes, a dog-less dog walk. Although considering I’m tired, confused, and kind of really need to pee, I might as well be a Yorkshire terrier right now.

We return to the front of the Wyatt. I look up at the building and back to her again, raising both eyebrows.

“I know there’s no Uptown Updogs!” she finally says just as we’re about to begin circling the building again. She’s visibly exasperated at having spoken first. “Or rather I know there’s no central office in Tribeca—it’s a sneaker store, according to Google Maps. No dozens of well-trained employees either. As far as I can tell, it’s just you.”

I quirk an eyebrow. I need to know all that she knows before actually commenting.

“And don’t try to gaslight me into ‘crazy talk’ either,” she preempts. “I looked up the domain, which is registered under your name. That’s just sloppy, frankly.”

Okay, so . . . everything. She knows everything. Fantastic.

“So what?” I finally say, sighing and sitting myself down on the building stoop. “Your mom sent you to fire me and reimburse the down payment, is that it?”

The key to being a decent liar is occasionally knowing when it’s best to come out clean and tell the truth. Corinne Troy looks at me with crossed arms, clearly enjoying the moment.

“No,” she eventually says. “I mean, I considered it. I don’t want a weird con-artist seventeen-year-old taking care of Palm Tree, but your online reviews themselves are real, as far as I can tell, and you do have dog-walking experience, fraudulent as it may be. Plus, there’s no arguing the proximity.”