Sitting across from me, she had smiled encouragingly, her too-pink lipstick clashing with her olive complexion. “You’ll find someone someday. I know you will.”

I bit my cheek hard enough to draw blood, and smiled at her while the inside of my mouth went copper. If only she knew.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO AUDREY

I sat straight up in bed, blinking my eyes in the dark as my heart thundered against my rib cage. What was that? I remained perfectly still, not even breathing as I listened for whatever had awakened me. Nothing. Carefully, I pushed myself out of bed and padded to the window. I lifted the edge of the curtain and looked out into the alley. It was empty. I exhaled, sagging with relief.

Maybe I’m just talking to myself again, I thought as I reached for my phone to check the Luna Listen app. Only after I had opened it did I realize I hadn’t set it. I was about to put down the phone when I noticed two unheard recordings from weeks ago, both from the same date: the day The Life and Death of Rosalind Rose opened. Between the thrill of finally sharing the dioramas with the public, the confrontation I’d had with Lawrence, and the unexpected visit from Nick, that day had been a whirlwind—I couldn’t imagine what kind of nonsense I would be mumbling about in my sleep.

Curious, I pressed “play.” The recording started with a muffled thud followed by a series of soft taps. Footsteps? I shuddered before I remembered that I was listening to a recording of the inside of my apartment. The footsteps had to belong to me. That’s new, I thought. No one’s ever accused me of sleepwalking.

But then I remembered swallowing a sleeping pill late that night, and also an article I’d once read listing some genuinely strange things people had done after taking sleeping pills: calling friends, eating, having sex, even driving. Apparently I was a sleepwalker when under the influence of sleeping pills. Who knew? I turned up the volume on my phone, wondering what else I might hear.

“Hi.”

My voice on the recording was so loud and clear I almost laughed. Most of the nocturnal chatter I’d captured with the Luna Listen app had been either sleepy murmurs or terrified shouts. This was a chipper, wide-awake greeting.

Then I heard something else, something that stripped the smile from my face. A shushing noise, possibly rustling of some sort? I rewound the recording and listened, trying to determine if it was more movement or perhaps just me in my sheets. I had to listen to it twice more before I realized what it was, and when I did, I dropped my phone in horror.

A voice, low and hushed, saying, “You’re dreaming.”

Someone had been in the apartment with me.

THERE WAS NO CHANCE of sleep. With my sharpest knife—a beautiful, shiny butcher’s knife I’d purchased purely for the aesthetics and had used only once for a staged photo of slicing fresh veggies—clutched in my hand, I ripped my apartment to pieces, searching every nook, cranny, and possible hiding place. I pushed open the bathroom door and froze, my eyes fixed on a shadow on the shower curtain. Someone is in there. I nearly blacked out with fear, but gripped the knife and forced myself into action. With a primal yell and my arm poised and ready to stab the hell out of an intruder, I thrust the curtain aside to find the shower empty. I staggered out of the bathroom and collapsed in the beanbag chair, surveying the apartment.