One should never notice your cosmetics, Lia. Unless, of course, you only wish to be noticed but not seen.

At the time, an adolescent, lip-gloss-loving Lia remembered being annoyed by the cryptic, critical comment. Now, Lia couldn’t say Grandmère had been wrong.

Lia’s neighbour was now shuffling across the marble floor, her eyes fixed beyond Lia at the tall, nude painting propped up inside the apartment and visible in the meagre light. She looked as shocked as Lia had felt when she had first opened the door, though that shock was fading into clear condemnation. Lia pasted on a smile and stepped more fully into her doorway, blocking the view inside.

The woman scowled and craned her neck, trying to peer past.

“Good afternoon,” Lia said politely, her ingrained boarding-school manners demanding that she make some sort of greeting.

In response, the dog resumed its frantic tirade, the shrill noise bouncing mercilessly off the marble floor and plaster walls. The woman’s face soured further, and she produced a piece of sausage from somewhere in the folds of her dress. That silenced the barking, two beady eyes now fixed not on Lia but on the prize held in clawlike fingers.

“You own this apartment?” the woman asked into the ensuing quiet with a voice like sandpaper.

“Yes.” A fact that was still so new and novel that it was hard to answer with conviction.

“I’ve lived here my entire life. Since 1943,” the woman said, her eyes narrowing.

Lia’s smile was slipping. “Um. That’s a long time—”

“I know everything that goes on in this building. And in all that time, no one has ever gone in or come out of that apartment. Until now.”

“Mmm.” Lia made some noncommittal sound. She wasn’t sure if that was a question, a statement, or an accusation. She adjusted her grip on the legal envelope, pressing it against her chest.

“You living here by yourself?” Her gaze shifted to Lia’s left hand.

“I beg your pardon?” Lia resisted the urge to shove her hand in her pocket.

“You seem old to not have a husband. Too late now, I suppose. Unfortunate.”

Lia blinked, uncertain she had heard right. “I’m sorry?”

“I know your type,” Lia’s neighbour sniffed, her eyes lingering first on Lia’s heavy backpack and the portfolio bag, and finally on her bare shoulders and the straps of her red sundress tied around her neck.

“My type?” Lia’s patience was wearing thin, and irritation was starting to creep in.

“I don’t want to hear your music. No drugs or booze or parties. No strange men prowling around my door at all hours of the night looking for you.”

“I’ll try to keep the men confined to daylight hours,” Lia replied pleasantly, unable to help herself.

Celeste, who had remained silent through the entire exchange, snorted in laughter before trying to cover it up with a fit of coughing.