He stepped closer for a better look. A few minor cracks in the plaster, sure, but no three-inch gap. No gap at all.

How could this be? Was he in the wrong apartment?

He took a mental picture of the bottles and hairbands and such on the dresser right under the spot where the gap should be, then mumbled a lame excuse and hurried upstairs.

Back in his apartment he made a beeline for his bedroom and dragged the nightstand a little farther from the wall—just enough for him to squeeze in behind it for a better look below. Good thing he was skinny. He knelt and craned his neck, but as he leaned on the edge he felt it soften—not crumble but soften and—

“Oh, Christ!”

—he tumbled through.

He managed to swing his legs under him and land partially on his feet in a crouch, then plopped onto his butt, damaging nothing beyond his pride. As he straightened he looked around and saw a king-size bed and a dresser against the wall, but its top was bare and made of a different wood from the old Jamaican woman’s. He’d landed in someone else’s apartment.

Whose then? Not some trigger-happy drug dealer with an AK-47, he hoped. Best to announce himself to avoid surprises. That gap in the corner of the ceiling showed where he’d come through. He could explain everything.

“Hello?” he called, moving toward the door. “Hello?”

No reply, so he peeked out into the short hall leading to the front room. Empty. And the front room looked empty too.

Yes!

One more try: “Hello?”

Again, no answer. He had the place to himself. Okay. Not a good idea to exit by the door—someone might see him and think he was up to no good. Best to go back the way he’d arrived.

In the bedroom he dragged the dresser—luckily it didn’t weigh much—under the opening, then placed a chair atop it. Now all he had to do was stretch and haul himself back into his own place. As soon as he was home, he’d get on the line to the property manager.

He pushed his head and chest above the floor line and was straining to lever the rest of himself up when he heard a sound in his living room. He froze and listened.

His apartment door had just opened, and now it closed. Softly.

He opened his mouth to call out but then shut it. He’d locked the door—a reflex when you lived in a place like this—which meant the intruder either had a key or had picked the lock. Frankie had never given a key to anyone.

Shit. Someone was boosting his place.

What would Jake Fixx do?

Well, fuck that. His recurring character—written under his own name—was an ex SEAL who could take down multiple attackers with ease. And what was he? A sedentary writer with atrophied muscles who hadn’t worked out since his teens.

He’d wait it out and hope he wasn’t discovered.