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My head is spinning. Could Whitney have moved here for the explicit purpose of turning my life into a living hell?

Admittedly, I committed a faux pas when I yelled at her for using my soap and cereal, and I regret it. But I haven’t done a damn thing to warrant the way she’s treated me. It does feel suspiciously like she’s had it out for me since day one.

Or maybe even before day one. Maybe she’s the entire reason I lost my job in the first place and needed to take in a tenant.

But how could that be? How would she even know Wayne Vincent? And even if she did—even if such a thing were possible—why? Why would she set me up that way? Why would she want to worm her way into my house?

Is there a reason Whitney Cross has it out for me that I don’t know about?

No. It doesn’t make sense. I may be a little bit more paranoid than usual lately, but that’s a big jump, even for me. And anyway, before she showed up for her interview, I had never seen her before in my life.

Had I?

I whip out my phone and type the name “Whitney Cross” into the Google search engine. I had done a quick search when we first met her, but when no red flags popped up, I stopped looking. But this time, I do a deeper dive.

The first hit is from an American historian named Whitney Rogers Cross, but she died in 1955, so I’m thinking this person isn’t related. I click through at least a dozen pages of results, and none of them are for the Whitney I know. I check social media and find a few profiles for Whitney Crosses, but none of them have a photo or any information that’s public.

That’s very strange. Most people my age have some sort of social media presence. But Whitney has nothing. There is not one digital footprint of that girl.

It’s unsettling.

Why wouldn’t she have any sort of social media presence? She doesn’t seem like a technophobe—she always has her phone in hand. Is she trying to hide something about her past?

Or maybe she just doesn’t like the internet. She’s always working, so it could be she doesn’t have time to be on social media. It’s certainly not a crime.

In any case, it doesn’t seem like I’m going to find anything interesting on Google.

Since Krista is having dinner with Becky tonight, I’m on my own for dinner. I don’t feel like making anything elaborate, but we’ve got bread and turkey, so a sandwich it is. I grab a loaf of bread and a package of processed turkey from the fridge and lay them down on the kitchen counter.

The impact of the two items landing on the kitchen counter is enough to propel several dozen fruit flies into the air. I take a step back, stunned. The fruit fly situation is completely out of control. How is it possible we have this many?

Krista and I built a second fruit fly trap on the kitchen counter. I peer into the second trap, and my heart sinks. There have got to be at least one hundred fruit flies in each of the two traps. We are catching fruit flies by the dozen, yet it seems like every time we kill one, two more emerge midair.

I look over at the bread and turkey, now covered in a pulsating layer of fruit flies. I gag at the sight of it. Well, there goes my appetite. I don’t know what we’re doing wrong. Krista and I have been taking turns cleaning the kitchen every day, and I scrub until my fingers are raw. There isn’t one spare crumb and certainly no fruit. What are these stupid fruit flies eating?

I can’t get an exterminator for fruit flies, can I? That’s not the sort of insect that requires heavy-duty poison. We should be able to get rid of them on our own. It’s all about eliminating the source of food.

But what is the source? The kitchen is spotless.

I raise my eyes, noticing that many of the fruit flies have gathered around one of the upper cabinets. I don’t know why they would be up there. All we have in there are clean dishes.

I tap open the cabinet, and a small swarm of flies emerges from within. What the hell? I crane my neck, trying to get a better look at the contents—it looks like it’s clean dishes and bowls. Why are there so many insects? They’re all clustered around the top shelf, which I can’t quite see.

What in the world is up there?

Unfortunately, I’m not going to be able to see what’s in that top shelf without something to prop me up. There’s a stool in the hall closet that’s about a foot tall, which I think will be just enough height for me to be able to reach that top shelf. Unfortunately, the stool isn’t incredibly stable. In fact, the last time I used it to help me change a light bulb, Krista made a remark about how I was going to break my neck.

But it will be fine. I’m not going to break my neck.

I drag the stool out to the kitchen and position it beneath the cabinet. When I step on top of it, it creaks threateningly, but it doesn’t collapse. It’s fine. I won’t be on it for very long.

The cabinet is still open, and the top shelf is visible, although not very well lit. The fruit flies are so dense up here, it almost looks like the shelf is alive. I don’t think fruit flies make noise, but the swarm almost seems to be buzzing. And there’s an odor. I had noticed a smell in the kitchen, although the truth is I had gotten used to it. But it’s much stronger up here with the cabinet open. Overpowering.

I blink a few times, trying to see beyond the fruit flies to what is attracting them. What has been feeding them?

And then I see it.

There’s a small paper bag in there. It’s very clear that the paper bag is the source of the flies because of the sheer number of them crawling all over it. For a moment, I consider grabbing a paper towel so I don’t have to touch the paper bag directly, but I don’t want to have to get off the stool, get the paper towel, and climb back up here again. No, I’ll just pick it up with my bare hands. I need this taken care of now .

I tug at the paper bag between my thumb and forefinger. The flies scatter slightly, although they are still intensely attracted to whatever is in that bag. I breathe through my mouth because of the smell, slowly pulling the bag closer to me until it is at the edge of the shelf. It’s just close enough that I can see what’s inside. I tip the edge of the bag to my line of sight, and I peer inside.

My stomach turns. Oh God. Oh God .

A resounding crack fills the kitchen, and the legs of the stool abruptly give way. But before I go crashing to the floor, all I can think to myself is I hate Whitney Cross .