But still I struggled to get a good night’s rest. I had talked in my sleep since childhood—something that had made me a peculiarity at middle school slumber parties—and suddenly I began talking so loudly I woke myself. In the small hours of the morning, I would shoot bolt upright in bed, looking wildly around for the source of the voice that had awakened me, only to find the room empty. It had only taken a few nights of that before I downloaded an app called Luna Listen, which proclaimed, “Set yourself free from insomnia!” It promised to do this by tracking my sleep and recording irregular noises. The idea was that a person could use it to figure out what was disrupting their sleep, be it a snoring partner, a barking dog, or their own relentless tossing and turning. In my case, I was the only thing disrupting my sleep—when I woke up petrified with fear, I only had to listen to the most recent recording to reassure myself that the loud voice shouting I’m scared! or sometimes Go away! was only me.

I RESOLVED TO MOVE OUT of that apartment soon. Leanne could change all the locks she wanted, and that basement unit would still be vulnerable to her grandson or any other miscreant skulking through that alley. Every day over lunch, I scrolled through apartment listings on Craigslist and trolled the Zillow app. I was in a hurry to leave, but I didn’t want to be in such a hurry I found myself in a similar—or worse—situation, and I didn’t want to let moving distract me from work.

Cat said I could stay in her guest room as long as I wanted, but there was an unfamiliar edge to her voice. If I didn’t know better, I might think Cat was annoyed with me. I was sure, though, that she was just stressed about work. Still, staying with Cat while she was in that kind of mood seemed unappealing, and so I declined her invitation and called Nick instead. Nick cut an imposing figure; he could intimidate my unwelcome visitor, should he return, much more successfully than I could, with or without expensive footwear in hand.

HAVING NICK OVER eased my paranoia, but I hated needing him. The damsel in distress was my least favorite trope, and I disliked embodying it. I tried to keep Nick on the back burner and to find other, healthier ways to distract myself from worries about the alley: I voraciously sampled exercise classes, testing a new Reformer or spin class every day; I spent hours on my Instagram presence, editing photos, crafting Stories, and working on the preset filter collection I hoped to soon launch; and I even FaceTimed my sister, Maggie, something I usually avoided because her kids seized her phone and started spinning it around in their chubby hands, leaving me dizzy.

And I threw myself into my job. Two months in, I still felt like I was learning the ropes, although I grew more confident every day. After all, who had so impressed Irina Venn that she’d created a special video for the museum? This girl. I knew the next several weeks would be demanding: The Life and Death of Rosalind Rose was opening later that month, and there was an exclusive member preview before that. Just that afternoon, I had been working on a posting schedule when Ayala had hovered over my shoulder, her breath sharp with the scent of bitter coffee, and had reminded me how important it was for the Rosalind exhibit to succeed. I was determined to not let her down—and to snag the promotion she was dangling.