“I’m supposed to be working soon, too.”
“Look, if you don’t trust me, say that. Don’t turn a favor into an interrogation.”
For a few seconds, I could hear the lobby radiator ticking behind me. I had no neat answer ready. I did trust him, or I had when I walked downstairs. I also knew he still hadn’t given me one name.
“You should have asked,” I said.
“Fine. I should have asked. Can we talk later?”
He sounded impatient enough that I found myself imagining his version of this conversation: his girlfriend calling to make a fuss over a few quiet hours in an empty room. Then I pictured strangers putting their bags on my kitchen counter, using the bathroom where my washing hung over the rail. The room hadn’t been empty. It had been mine.
“Don’t arrange anything else,” I said.
“Nora.”
“Not until we’ve talked.”
I ended the call before he could make me argue for that, too.
Imogen looked up when I returned to the desk.
“He says work meetings.” I heard how thin that sounded. “Can you show me what’s actually been delivered?”
“Only the records attached to your flat,” she said.
She pulled two sheets of plain paper from the printer tray and laid them across the ledger, covering the other tenants’ entries. Then she turned it toward me.
There were four deliveries. Four Tuesdays.
I checked the dates twice. Each one was an evening I’d been at work, following the same routine I had been about to follow now. Caleb knew that routine. There had been nothing suspicious about him knowing it until this moment.
Under the recipient heading, the same name appeared four times: Tessa.
His sister.
I bent closer, as though I might have mistaken the handwriting. I knew Tessa from family meals, from standing beside her at sinks while everyone else stayed at the table. She was married. Once, after she’d mentioned an argument with her husband, I had told her they ought to try to work it out. I remembered how readily I’d said it, though I couldn’t see what it had to do with these deliveries.
Caleb had said coworkers. Only coworkers.
My finger hovered above the collection column.
Caleb. All four times.
The rounded lettering was familiar. I’d seen it on birthday cards and notes left beside my kettle.
“Those are his signatures?” I asked.
“Yes,” Imogen said. “He collected them.”
I straightened up slowly. There was no wrong flat number to correct, no unfamiliar courier’s mistake to laugh off. Tessa’s name was beside my address, and Caleb had signed for every parcel.
I took my phone out again. This time, I wasn’t going to ask him for a better explanation.
I opened Tessa’s number instead of Caleb’s and moved away from the desk.
Can we talk privately? It’s about deliveries to my flat.
I nearly added that I wasn’t angry with her. I deleted it because I didn’t know whether it was true.
Her reply came while I was still holding the phone.
Can you call?
In the corner beside the lobby window, I pressed the phone against my ear. Tessa answered quietly.
“Has Caleb finally explained?”
“No. He told me he was having work meetings.”
She didn’t answer at once. Through the glass, I watched someone wrestle a folded pushchair out of a car.
“Tessa, were you in my apartment?”
“Yes. With Ruth. She’s a housing advocate.” Her voice became careful. “We met there.”
I put my bag on the floor. The strap had been digging into my hand.
“Why didn’t you just call me?”
“Can you come upstairs? I’m nearby. Ruth’s with me. I’d rather explain in person.”
I wanted an answer before letting anyone through my door. But I also wanted to see her face when she gave it.
