Page 63 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind

Soren nods, the harsh overhead light playing with his hair. “Yes.”

“That would only be relevant for the people who share walls. That especially makes me think it’s him.”

“I agree.”

Even though I know it makes me look highly suspect, I fan my face; it’s getting warm in here. This space is small at the best of times, much less when two grown adults are crammed inside. The stale air is slowly taking on Soren’s sharp, spicy scent, and I’m not sure I can handle much more of that.

“Let’s go,” I say, opening the door to the pantry. I step out and shove my phone in my pocket, welcoming the fresh flow of air once more—and, even better, the scent of just-out-of-the-oven muffins.

“Wait,” Soren says from behind me. “You dropped something.”

I move to the counter, picking up one of the muffins. “What?” I say over my shoulder, peeling off the wrapping and taking a bite.

“Here. It’s—” But he breaks off, and I turn around to see why he’s fallen into silence.

Only the second I turn around, I wish I hadn’t.

Because there he is, his stupid man bun still perfectly golden, his brow furrowed, his lips parted as he frowns down at the piece of paper he’s holding—a piece of paper with neat fold creases and handwriting I recognize as my own.

My list.

Soren is reading my list.

15

FROM THE LIFE OF CARMINA HILDEGARDE

OCTOBER 16

Carmina Hildegarde stared out her bedroom window through the slit in her blinds. She held the slats just far enough apart that she could see without being seen in return, a practice she’d perfected after years of spying and nosing. A woman didn’t always have all the advantages she needed, and when that was the case, it fell to her to pave her own way, no matter the cost.

Her eyes narrowed as she watched horrid Mr. Foster and his horrid, giant dog. The beast was on its leash this time, so there was nothing there she could report; the neighbor had denied that it was his dog who’d knocked her down, and despite the bruises and the sore wrist, she didn’t really have any proof. Maybe if she caught it relieving itself in an undesignated area, she could turn that in instead? So she kept her eyes on man and pet as they meandered, the dog sniffing here and there, its tail wagging merrily.

Horrible animal. Horribleman.

He was a snoop, her neighbor, his beady little eyes always hunting for who knows what. That, combined with the beast…

It wasn’t that she disliked dogs; quite the contrary, actually. When she was younger, back in her heyday, when she was the height of fashion and the envy of every young woman, she’d kept a little Bichon Frisé named Millicent. Millie had gone everywhere with her, tucked into her purse, her fluffy head sticking out, her tiny tongue lapping up the air.

But if one keeps a pet, one must maintain the pet properly. And while Millie was perfectly trained and perfectly behaved, Mr. Foster’s dog was not.

“Ah-ha,” Carmina said as she spotted the dog lifting one leg and relieving itself on a bush. She grabbed her camera from next to her and fumbled with it for a second with age-worn fingers, only barely managing to snap the shot in time. Proof. Proof that that dog was a menace.

She smiled with satisfaction.

16

IN WHICH SOREN KNOWS NOTHING ABOUT HAIR SALONS

Oh, Heidi. My Heidi. That precious, headstrong, infuriating woman. The piece of paper in my hands is, without a doubt, a list she made—aboutme.

She’s relegated me to words on a notepad.

It’s so like her that I have to fight my laugh.

“Give me that,” she mutters now, abandoning her muffin. She sets it hastily on the counter, where it rolls a few times and then falls still. Then she lurches toward me, her eyes on the paper, her hands outstretched.

“I don’t think so, Miss Lucy,” I murmur, holding the note high above my head. “Did you really make a pros and cons list about me?”

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