I got a response within an hour of submitting my essay with instructions to take my security deposit and first month’s rent to an old-fashioned smoke shop on Avenue B, where it took me a minute to find the small, old Polish man camouflaged amongst the large selection of bongs (beautiful glasswork, I noted) that were stacked on the front counter. He didn’t respond to my hello, just stuck his hand out for my envelope with the checks, looked them over briefly, and then handed me two keys in return.

I admit I was slightly nervous about what I’d walk into when I put the key in the door. After all, I had done this whole thing sight unseen and the rent was ridiculously cheap. I was expecting some catch: maybe vermin, maybe dead body chalk lines—neither of which was a deal breaker, by the way.

What I walked into was a revelation. A bright, airy, true one-bedroom. The kitchen and bathrooms both had some once-neon pink tiling that were somewhat eighties chic, but everything was functional. The living space was definitely big enough for a couch and a dining (or, let’s be real, pinball) table. Wall to wall, the bedroom could fit a full-size bed and a dresser. I was on the fourth floor and the building even had an actual elevator! It wasn’t working when I got in, but that was hardly the point.

If there was a catch, I didn’t want to know what it was and, quite frankly, I’d probably be fine with it. As I’d established with Bree earlier, haunted apartments were all the rage anyway.

What the what?! It’s a text from Aisha, but I don’t know what she’s freaking out about. I send her back a question mark.

I take it you haven’t read Leanne’s e-mail yet . . .

I saw it come in but since I’m about to run out of my apartment to grab my table, I haven’t opened it yet.

But Aisha’s text piques my curiosity. I take out my phone as I walk to the front door. I’m just about to click on Leanne’s subject line when I hear a deep voice ring out in the hallway, “I’m coming out!” Ah, my mysterious neighbor. Not sure if they’re a big fan of Diana Ross, auditioning to be an off-brand Price Is Right announcer, or possibly making sure the building knows their sexual orientation at all times, but despite the fact that we’ve never met, I’ve heard that greeting every single day that I’ve lived here. You gotta love New York.

I read Leanne’s message once.

By the second time, I probably no longer need that cup of coffee. I’m up.

I text Aisha back exclamation points.

Leanne . . . and GILES . . . are . . . , I write.

Boinking. Yes, it would appear so. Now everything makes SO MUCH SENSE.