Page 40 of Perfectly Faked

When we arrive, Bellgate Apartments is exactly how I remember: run-down and highly questionable, like thebackdrop of a low-budget horror movie. No place Victoria should be living.

I climb out of the car, studying the third floor. “Tell me, why am I risking my life for this bird?”

Victoria hauls her bag over her shoulder. “Delilah brought me brownies when I moved in. Isn’t that the most neighborly thing?”

I shoot her a look. “That’s probably because your other neighbors would lace their brownies with illegal substances.”

She shakes her head. “Bellgate is perfectly fine,” she promises, before walking toward the entrance.

I hang back, surveying the crumbling building.

The overgrown bushes out front look like they haven’t seen a pair of clippers in decades, and the faded sign hanging above the entrance reads “ellgate” because the “B” fell off years ago. Someone thought it’d be funny to spray-paint an “H” on there instead, making it “Hellgate”—which honestly feels accurate.

A loud squawk from above catches my attention, and I spot Big Bertha—who should actually be called Mr. Stupid Feathers—on a ledge that’s barely wide enough for him to park his fat bird butt on.

He’s also about six feet away from any window access, which means if I can’t coax him inside, then someone will have to risk their neck shuffling across that tiny ledge. And that someone will probably be me.

I shake my head at Bertha. “Really? You had to pick today to do this?”

Big Bertha lets out an insult that would impress a room of hockey players.

A window opens, and Victoria peeks her head out. “I’m in Delilah’s apartment, number 308. Lucky us, she’s baking brownies today!” Then she turns to Big Bertha and clucks her tongue at him. Bertha ignores her completely.

“Don’t you dare think about it,” I warn Victoria. “Stay right there. I’m coming upstairs.”

I sprint up the sketchy stairwell, the floor sticky enough to make me question whether it’s been cleaned in the last decade, before I head down the dimly lit hallway that smells faintly of mildew. Delilah greets me at her door in a mauve dressing gown, looking like she just stepped off the set ofThe Golden Girls. Behind her,Wheel of Fortuneplays on TV.

“Are you the gentleman here to save my Bertha?” she asks, clutching a remote.

Victoria appears at her shoulder, smiling sweetly. “Yes, this is my friend Leo.”

It’s the first time she’s called me her friend.Temporaryskating partnerjust got an upgrade.

“He loves birds,” Victoria adds with a smirk. “He’ll make sure nothing happens to Big Bertha, right, Leo?”

“Nothing will happen to the bird,” I mutter, already regretting this entire situation. I should’ve insisted on taking her to a restaurant and let Bertha fend for himself.

Delilah’s brow furrows and her hands flutter nervously. “Oh, goodness me, do you think he’s in danger? He has wings, so I just assumed...”

“Can he fly?” I ask.

She wrings her hands together. “Um, no, not really. But he thinks he can.”

A delusional bird with an ego problem.Just perfect.

Victoria loops her arm through Delilah’s. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.” She steers Delilah away from the door and then gives me a pointed nod that tells me she wants me to take care of Bertha ASAP.

“Do you mind if I look in your pantry for something Bertha might like?” I ask.

“Be my guest,” Delilah says as she and Victoria settle on the afghan-covered couch to watch the game show.

I rifle through the pantry, grabbing anything that looks remotely parrot-appropriate. Crackers? Sure. A half-eaten bag of tortilla chips? Why not. A can of olives? Probably not, but I’m desperate.

Armed with my makeshift bird buffet, I head to the window and lean out, hoping the promise of snacks will tempt Bertha back to safety. I take out the sleeve of crackers and wave it like a peace offering.

“Come on, Bertha,” I say under my breath. “You like crackers, right? Who doesn’t like crackers?”

Bertha squawks, then gives me the side-eye like he couldn’t possibly stoop to the level of a cracker.

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