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When I get a phone call from Malcolm—of Malcolm and Becky fame—I recognize Krista’s influence.

It’s been two weeks since Krista discovered that lipstick on my shirt. I never confronted Whitney about it, but she gave me a knowing look the day after Krista’s discovery that made me even more sure she was behind it. I’m also fully convinced that she did something to the washer or dryer to make my clothes itchy, because after Krista started bringing them to the dry cleaner, I haven’t had a problem. The rash is now gone.

As for Krista and me, things have been better, if a little tenuous. Does she believe that I’m not fooling around behind her back? I think so. But I also think she doesn’t want to admit how worried she is about me. She’s out having dinner with Becky tonight, so the phone call from her friend’s husband is suspiciously well-timed to keep me from being left to my own devices.

I’m on my way home from work, about two blocks away from the brownstone, when my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. I was in no rush to get home, meandering down the residential streets, the weather a perfect sixty degrees. I decide to take Malcolm’s call and speed up my steps, figuring I’ll have an excuse to hang up when I get home. I swipe to answer, and Malcolm’s congenial voice fills my ear: “Blake! How are you doing?”

“Fine,” I lie. “How are you?”

“Good good good.” His habit of repeating words irks me more than usual, but I try not to show it. “And how’s Krista doing?”

“I don’t know. Ask Becky.”

Malcolm laughs heartily at what was not entirely a joke. “Listen, Blake, I was wondering if you want to get a drink with me sometime? We haven’t done that in ages.”

I’m not sure we ever did it. Back when we were both working at Coble & Roy, sometimes a bunch of us went out for drinks after work, and we were both there. But just me and Malcolm? Never happened. And right now, I’m not excited to hang out with a guy who works at the company that fired me. Who inexplicably seems to be doing better than I am.

“Maybe,” I say, meaning no.

“I think it would be fun,” he says. “The girls are such good friends, and I feel like you and I ought to get to know each other better.”

I pass a Chinese restaurant on the corner that has excellent dim sum all day long. Despite my eagerness to get home, I pause a second to consider picking up an order of shrimp and chive dumplings before I remember that my budget doesn’t allow unlimited takeout like before. “I’m just swamped right now.”

“Oh yeah? Everything okay?”

“Yes, everything is fine. I’m just busy. But, you know, good busy.”

“That’s great to hear. Great great great.”

“Anyway,” I say, clenching my jaw, “I’m definitely up for a drink, but I need to wait for my schedule to calm down a little. You understand, right?”

“Absolutely,” Malcolm agrees, “but maybe we should put something on the calendar now.”

“Uh-huh. Okay.” I turn onto my block, the brownstone in sight. “The thing is, at the moment, I’m walking home from work, and I’ll be going through the door soon, so…maybe we can talk about it another time?”

He laughs again. “You trying to get rid of me, Porter?”

“Not at all. We should definitely get drinks. That sounds great.” I sprint up the steps to my front door. “Great great great, you know?” I fumble to get my keys out of my pocket. “But at the moment—”

“How about next Wednesday then?”

It takes me a split second too long to think of an excuse. “Um…”

“Great!” he says. “Let’s meet at Hannigan’s at eight o’clock. You know it, right?”

Of course I know it. It’s around the corner from Coble & Roy. If I have to do this, there’s no way I’m going to a bar that’s likely to be frequented by my old colleagues. I don’t need that.

“Let’s meet at Cooper’s,” I say, which is an Upper West Side bar midway between his apartment and my brownstone. We’ve been there for double dates before, so I know he knows it.

“You got it,” he says. “Looking forward to it!”

“Yep,” I say.

I manage to end the call just as I fit the key in my lock. I wasn’t entirely lying—the days at the office are long, and they feel even longer. I’m exhausted from being everyone’s gopher, and all I want right now is to relax. So my stomach sinks when I shove open the door to find Whitney in my living room. Just who I want to deal with right now.

Whitney is wearing her usual pair of straight-cut blue jeans, although this time she’s wearing a nicer top, which is black and chic and sexy. She looks…well, she looks great. I wonder if she has a date. It’s somehow hard to imagine Whitney on a date though. If she had sex with a guy, she’d probably have to devour him after the mating ritual was over.

“Hello, Blake,” she says.

“Going somewhere?” I ask.

“Maybe.”

She winks at me and pulls a compact out of her purse as well as a tube of lipstick. She pops open the compact and applies a layer of lipstick to her top and bottom lips. As the color glides on, I recognize it immediately.

It’s the same exact color that was on my shirt collar.

“Where did you get that lipstick?” The question is out before I can stop myself.

She puckers her lips and smiles sweetly at me. “And why is that any of your business?”

I imagine her slipping into my bedroom and rubbing the makeup over my shirt collars, just hoping Krista would notice and I would get in trouble. What is wrong with this woman? What on earth did I do to her to make her hate me this much? Why would she try to sabotage my relationship with Krista?

“You’re despicable,” I spit at her.

She drops the compact back into her purse, the smile now having vanished from her blood-red lips. “ Excuse me? I’m despicable because I put on some lipstick?”

“Don’t try to deny what you did.”

Whitney slips the tube of lipstick back into her purse and zips it up. “Maybe you should focus less on me and more on not screwing up your new gig.”

I glare at her. “My job is going fine, thank you very much.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Yeah? Hard to imagine. You know, considering what happened at your last company…”

Considering what happened at my last company? What the hell does that mean? What does she know?

Whitney glances down at her watch. “Anyway, I better get going. I don’t want to be late.”

“Wait.” I reach for her wrist, but she shakes me off roughly. “What are you talking about? Why did you just say that to me?”

“Oh, Blake,” she sighs. “You should be more worried about yourself . You look like shit, you know.”

With those words, she pushes past me and breezes out of the house. God, I wish I had the money to kick her out for good. Better yet, I wish I was never in a position to need her in the first place.

I rub my fingertips over my eyes. Do I really look like shit? I’m half tempted to check out my appearance in the bathroom mirror, but I have a feeling I won’t like what I see. The lack of sleep is really getting to me.

Why did she make that comment about my job? Before she started hating me, Whitney and I had a few nice conversations, but I never told her the reason I got fired. Does she know? Or is she just toying with me? There’s no way she could possibly know the details about my termination. Unless…

My stomach drops. Is it possible that Whitney moving into my house isn’t just a horrible coincidence? Is it possible that she somehow engineered all this from the beginning?

Has she been out to get me from the second she moved in?