Freya didn’t seem to notice nature’s pageantry. She was subdued that morning, her hair pulled back, her designer tights replaced with baggy sweats and an oversize jacket. I’d noticed a subtle change in her disposition over the past couple of months. She was a little less bubbly, a little less vivacious. When I asked after her well-being, she was dismissive, saying she hadn’t been sleeping well. She yawned a lot, which seemed to back up her story. But she wasn’t yawning today. And her face looked troubled.

“I have something I need to tell you,” she said.

She didn’t look at me, didn’t slow her pace, but her delivery was ominous. I felt my jaw clench. Our friendship had pretty much returned to normal since the night I had betrayed her. We saw each other regularly for walks, salads, or wine. But we hadn’t socialized as couples; Brian was struggling with finishing his book, going back and forth with his editor. And I didn’t want to see Max.

Our night together had been consensual. Max had asked if he could touch and kiss me, assured me that we didn’t have to do anything I wasn’t comfortable with. I had given him my exuberant permission. But I still felt tricked, duped, and ashamed of myself. I didn’t know what to say or how to act around him, and so I avoided him. But I had worked hard to return normalcy to my friendship with Freya. Things felt fine between us. At least I thought so. . . .

“Okay.” My voice sounded strangled.

“It’s about Low.”

Relief flooded through me. “What about her?”

“I caught her spying on Max and me.”

“What?”

“We were up late the other night talking in the kitchen. It was past midnight. Suddenly, we saw Low watching us through the glass patio doors.”

“Jesus. What was she doing there?”

“She said she was working late in the studio and she fell asleep.” Freya looked at me then and her tone became pointed. “Turns out, she’d been living in the attic above the studio.”

“Oh my god.”

“She had a sleeping bag, a pillow . . . She even had breakfast food.”

“And she didn’t ask you if she could stay there?”

“Of course not.” Freya gave a derisive snort. “If we had known she was there, she wouldn’t have been able to creep around outside watching us like a stalker.”

I was not close to Low, not like Freya had been, but the girl seemed harmless. She was unusual, awkward, even aloof. But she was just a kid. It couldn’t have been easy growing up feeling different, being ostracized by her peers.

“Could there be another explanation?” I asked. “Maybe something’s going on at home?”

“An explanation for squatting on my property? For staring into my windows in the middle of the fucking night?”

Freya was angry. She felt violated, and I would have, too. Of course, if Low had been staring into my windows in the wee hours, she’d have nodded off from boredom. Brian and I went to bed religiously at eleven. We made love on Sunday mornings. The most exciting thing a Peeping Tom would see at our house would be a late-night trip to the toilet.