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Archer

Do go on.

Bellamy

Willa.

With a heavy sigh, I squeeze my eyes closed. Willa—the woman I can’t seem to escape.

Even on the days I don’t see her, she lingers in my thoughts. She fills my apartment through the scent of Bellamy’s cookies. And anytime I use my closet, I can’t help but think of finding her inside.

There’s still a nagging discomfort when I think of that situation. That night, I saw Willa as some confused person, or perhaps someone suffering from a delusion. A very pretty compulsive liar.

But after our other interactions, none of those explanations seem to fit.

I may not understand how a sugar cookie business works, but the detail in her confections speaks to a meticulous person. Focused. Attentive and good with details. Not to mention the creativity and the artistry in her work.

Then there was tonight. She offered tohelp me with the trash, something she didn’t need to do.

And it was Willa who managed to wrangle Archibald off me and back to Sara, ordering them upstairs until we’d taken care of the opossum.

It was Willa who propped open the door and shooed the opossum—which had taken refuge behind what used to be the building’s front desk—outside.

All while I sat stunned on the floor.

Willa helped me up.

And it was Willa who ended up taking out the trash. Though her eyes practically incinerated me after I said what I said, she didn’t tell me to do it myself.

None of these characterize a woman who would fabricate a story to gain access to my closet, at least not for any reason I can think of.

And if that’s not enough, she’s had numerous interactions with Bellamy now—including texts, apparently—and his radar hasn’t gone off once.

In fact, I’m sure if I were to tell him what happened that first night, he wouldn’t believe it. I don’t really believe it either.

Which leaves me confused.

But whatever would explain the appearance in my closet is irrelevant.

Willa is the last person who would want to work for me after what I said tonight.

Even for a paycheck.

Archer

Why Willa?

Bellamy appears to be typing a lengthy message, dots blinking as I wait impatiently. Then they disappear altogether, and I toss the phone onto the island in frustration. It skids across and stops when it hits a familiar box. One of Willa’s.

And yet again, here she is.

I have a hard time believing Bellamy would have left his trash on the counter—he’s the only person neater than I am—but when I peer through the box’s clear plastic window, it’s full of cookies.

There’s a sticky note that readsFrom Bellamy.

He must have left them … for me?

My phone lights up. Bellamy has sent an audio message. Still eyeing the box of cookies, I press play.