Chapter 2: The Dead Man's Apartment
The key stuck on the first try. I jiggled it, cursed under my breath, and felt the lock finally give.
Fourth floor walkup. No elevator. My thighs burned by the second landing—Fin's body was lean, but apparently cardio hadn't been a priority. I made a mental note: start running.
Apartment 4B. Small studio. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.
Books. That was the first thing. Stacks on the floor, shelved on a crooked bookcase, piled on the windowsill. Fiction mostly—literary stuff, some classics, a surprising amount of crime novels. A guitar leaned in the corner, acoustic, well-worn at the frets.
The bed was unmade. Dishes in the sink. Mail piled on a small table by the door.
I picked up the stack. Bills. Flyers. A notice from the post office dated two days ago.
Two days. Fin Coulson had been dead for two days, and nobody had noticed.
I set the mail down and moved through the space. Laptop on a desk—closed, power light dark. Photos tacked to the wall: Fin smiling with people I didn't recognize, at parties, at what looked like an open mic night. He had a good smile. Easy, genuine.
Gone now.
The phone was in my jacket pocket. Dead battery. I found a charger tangled in cables by the bed and plugged it in. The screen lit up after a minute: seventeen missed texts, four voicemails.
Danny: Where are you? You missed rehearsal. Danny: Dude?? Danny: Fine be like that
Another contact—Sarah—asking about a freelance article deadline.
I scrolled through, building a picture. Fin Coulson was a struggling writer. Did some music on the side. Had friends, but not close ones. The kind of people who'd wait a few days before getting worried.
The bank app showed $1,247 in checking. Not rich, but not broke.
I sat on the bed and let out a breath. The mattress creaked. Springs old enough to vote.
Okay. Identity secured. Money accessible. Roof over my head.
Now: powers.
The message had mentioned something about growing stronger. Breaking obsessions. That implied abilities. Tools.
I closed my eyes and tried to focus inward. What did I have? What could I do?
Nothing obvious. No tingling, no energy reserves, no heads-up display listing skills like a video game.
But something nagged at me. A sense that information was... sticky. That the layout of this apartment had locked into my brain faster than it should.
I opened my eyes and looked around. The bookshelf. Third shelf, fifth book from the left: The Secret History by Donna Tartt. Spine creased, pages dog-eared.
I hadn't paid attention to it specifically. But I knew it was there. Could see it in my mind like a photograph.
I stood and walked to the bookshelf. Counted. Third shelf. Fifth book.
The Secret History.
My pulse picked up.
I tried another test. Closed my eyes, pictured the mail stack. Top piece: electric bill, ConEdison, amount due $67.42.
Opened my eyes. Checked the bill.
$67.42.
Memory Palace. The phrase surfaced from somewhere—not a thought, more like accessing a file. A power. My power.
Perfect retention of sensory information. Everything I saw, heard, touched—stored, indexed, retrievable.
I laughed. The sound surprised me. A little unhinged, bouncing off the apartment walls.
One down. What else?
I tried to feel for threats. For danger. For the "killing intent" the cosmic message had implied.
The room was silent. No pressure, no cold, no warning bells. Just me and the dust motes floating in afternoon light.
Either nobody wanted to hurt me, or that power needed work.
File it away. Test later.
The shower called to me. Twenty minutes under hot water, watching unfamiliar hands work soap across unfamiliar skin. There was a scar on my left shoulder—three inches, curved, old and silvered. I had no idea how Fin got it.
The body had history. Stories I'd never know.
I dried off with a thin towel and stared at my reflection. Hazel eyes. Dark hair, still damp. Cheekbones sharper than I expected. A face that was handsome enough to open doors but forgettable enough to close behind you.
A writer's face. A musician's hands.
I could work with this.
The laptop powered up without asking for a password. Fin Coulson trusted his little corner of the world. I opened the browser and typed: Joe Goldberg New York.
Sixteen million results. LinkedIn profiles, Facebook accounts, a podcast host, a dentist in Queens.
Too common. Useless.
I tried variations. Joe Goldberg murder. Joe Goldberg stalker. Joe Goldberg obsession.
Nothing that matched. Either he hadn't been caught yet, or his crimes were too recent for the internet.
I leaned back in the chair, laptop screen glowing in the dim apartment.
Different approach needed. Couldn't search for him online—had to find him the old-fashioned way. Watch. Wait. Use whatever powers I had to detect him.
Somewhere in this city, Joe Goldberg was hunting someone. Building toward violence. And I was the only thing standing between him and another body.
The cosmic rules were clear: I couldn't kill him. But I could stop him. Interrupt him. Break his patterns until his obsession crumbled.
Tomorrow, I'd start looking. Walk the streets. Test my Detection ability. See if I could sense the wrongness the message promised.
Tonight, I needed to eat real food and sleep in a dead man's bed.
My phone buzzed. Danny again: Seriously dude call me
I typed back: Sorry. Rough couple days. Talk soon.
Three dots appeared. Then: OK... you good?
Getting there.
Not a lie. Not exactly the truth either.
I set the phone down and went to raid Fin Coulson's kitchen.
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