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Every wall is lined with intricate Victorian panels that extend to the ceiling, all painted a dark seafoam hue. A crystal chandelier hangs in the foyer, above a grandiose staircase that rises to the second level, where I need to be. The intricate handrail matches the rich wood floors and an ornate emerald carpet runner climbs the staircase, likely doubling as a sound barrier for the residents living below. Another flight up and I’m outside her door.

Her apartment is completely unmonitored. My hand pats the breast pocket of my jacket and I reach inside. Oh look, my lockpick set. How did that get in there? Weird.

Her door has a gold 3 above the peephole. After I remove the tools from their case, the deadbolt gives way in less than a minute. I push the door open further and am met with the faint scent of pear and jasmine—no question she lives here.

Even with the lights off, the space seems brighter than the green foyer outside her door. The panels carry through into her apartment, but they only extend halfway up the walls and they aren’t painted like the others; these appear to be original. Above the panels, cream plaster walls meet the ceiling that is skirted with decorative crown molding.

As I enter the apartment, straight across is the small kitchen with checkerboard flooring, it’s a little cramped for me, but seeing as she’s a pocket person, it’s probably just right for her. The cabinets and shelves coordinate with the wood paneling throughout. I open the fridge, and the interior light fills the kitchen.

“Damn, Duchess.”

It’s mostly empty, but the food that remains is all in matching glass food storage containers. Even the eggs are in some special container. Her pantry has a few healthy snacks and a large decorative glass jar filled with suckers. I lift the lid and swipe one, unwrapping it and popping it in my mouth. I bite down, letting the candied shards sweeten my tongue. Is this what she tastes like?

The checkered tile transitions to aged hardwood as I make my way to the living room. The large bay window faces the front of the house where I watched her earlier. It’s cozy, enough room for a small sofa, an upholstered chair, a coffee table, a few built-in bookcases, and a media console.

Double pocket doors split the entrance to the bedroom. A fireplace breaks up the panels that span the opposite interior wall. The decorated mantel holds some framed art pieces, spanning from large to small; they lean against the plaster, edges overlapping beside a flower vase. To the left is a large mirror that hangs on the wall. I stand in front of my reflection; judgmental eyes stare back.

“This isn’t a B&E—it’s a safety consultation.”

I check the sturdiness of the mirror, lifting it away from the wall far too easily. Yeah, definitely a risk. Good thing someone qualified showed up. I dash into her kitchen, rifling through drawers until I find what I’m looking for—a tape measure—then take down the dimensions of the frame and pop them into my phone. Next time I’m here, I’ll take care of this.

The wall to the right has two windows that are slightly overlapped by her bed. Spinning in a circle, I get a feel for the space. Gotta be honest, I expected more pink. The bed is made up with downy cream blankets beside an upholstered rosy headboard. There’s about thirty-too-many pillows, but other than that it’s a very tidy room. I’m also neat, but mostly because I don’t have enough things to make a mess in the first place. Anna probably has a chart for each decorative throw pillow.

My phone says I don’t have a ton of time left before she comes back, so I do a quick sweep of the apartment. Her orderliness continues throughout; it’s cozy and decorated. Everything is in its place. It’s . . . nice. Peaceful.

Her laptop sits on her bed and I open it up to the last thing she was working on. A schedule. Shocking. Okay, time to discover what she’s really into. I crack my knuckles and open her browser history. It’s mostly boring shit, which I expected, but there’s an addiction forum she seems to visit regularly.

Then I see my name. She Googled me. The date is after our appointment. She pulled up my social media accounts; there’s not much on me, I keep it hidden, but fun knowing we have been Googling each other. That’s . . . interesting. Though she didn’t get very far because I’m good at covering my tracks.

I also go into her calendar settings to give access to myself via a throwaway email address, then sync it to my phone. Not that her social calendar is bursting at the seams. Other than her virtual therapy sessions and weekly NA and dance, it’s pretty boring. Come on, what else ya got?

I click a few other links, one of which appears to give away her porn preferences . . . Now we’re talking. Ooh, voyeurism. Well, what do you know, just when I thought we’d never be a Venn diagram, our masturbation fodder brings us together. Finally, something we fucking have in common!

The rest of her websites are boring. Weather—who the fuck even searches for the weather these days?

“Ever heard of an app?” I say under my breath as I scroll.

Tips for organizing a bathroom, how to improve hand placement on the pole, and the formula to calculate the area of a circle. “Come on, pi times radius squared!”

Yawn.

After that, I go through her playlists. “Lipdance,” I read aloud, tapping the song. The upbeat melody of the last song she listened to plays through the speakers, filling the dead air as I scroll through her musical preferences. She’s got good taste, there’s a little bit of everything in here.

Standing up, I wander around her bedroom. Opening her dresser drawers shows neat stacks of shirts—folded precisely, of course. Another drawer filled with knits. The top drawer contains her underwear and I rifle through it because, well, I want to. I hold up a couple pieces. Cute. I return the unmentionables to their rightful place and continue my self-guided tour. Her nightstand has a drawer with a shelf below containing books. Most are personal development or relating to addiction, save for a few paperbacks: The Golem and the Jinni, Kafka on the Shore, and a well-worn copy of Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine.

The drawer above reveals a silk drawstring bag, inside is a magenta vibrator; I test out the different intensity levels and vibrations. This baby has some kick. Good for her. That’s when I notice a pairing button . . . interesting. A quick online search has me downloading an app. Then I press the pairing button and link it to my phone . . . ya know, to see if it works. It does. Neat. Returning it to the bag, I continue my search. There are a few miscellaneous charging cables and some lube. A notepad and pencil. No condoms, though. Maybe she’s on birth control . . .

To the bathroom! Shutting the drawer, I head into the en suite bath. There’s a deep claw-foot tub with an oval shower curtain rod above, allowing the curtain to wrap all the way around the perimeter. A handheld showerhead attachment is connected to the exposed water pipes. I pick up the shampoo bottle, opening the top and giving it a sniff, as if I’m taking a hit of the way her hair smells. I close the lid and put it back. There’s a toilet on the opposite wall; beside it stands a pedestal sink. The mirror above the sink is of the medicine cabinet variety. Bingo. I open it up. A few orange prescription bottles are lined up like soldiers, labels out. How is she so organized? “This is getting out of control.” I spin one of them a quarter turn. Based on the inventory, it looks like she has anxiety and depression. Who fucking doesn’t these days?

Her pink nail polish sits below. I unscrew the cap and paint my middle fingernail, then screw the cap back on and blow on the wet polish to help it dry.

My phone vibrates and I freeze. That’s not good. I stop the music, close the extra tabs, and slap the lid shut.

A peek out the window shows her strolling up to the mansion steps, each hand carrying a reusable bag filled with groceries.

Shit, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Darting my gaze left and right, I wait for a magical portal to open up for me to hide in. I’m six foot seven, there’s nowhere for me to hide here! The adrenaline rush is lovely, but this isn’t like some of the other ones; this could actually land me in hot water. Panicking, I drop onto my belly and wriggle under the bed. Thank Christ I’m thin enough because this is literally the only place that could hide me.