The microwave beeps, and I remove my mug, placing it on the counter. I place a lemon tea bag inside, then join Saige on the couch. She's flipping through a magazine with cars on the cover.

"Since when were you into auto mechanics?" Saige asks.

I sink onto taupe-colored cushions, letting the steaming tea warm my face. "Since never."

Saige chuckles. "Don't you think you can ask Tabitha for more interesting subscriptions?"

"She probably would." I bring the rim of my mug to my lips, then remember that it's still scalding hot. I set it down on a coaster sitting on the coffee table before me.

"It's just ridiculous. Another of these magazines is about insects." Saige lifts another magazine from the pile of mail I just got. Two bulbous eyes stare at me from the cover, and I look away from the giant stinger on the creature's backside, though a smile still tugs at my lips.

"Please put that down." I flip through the junk mail, ads for pool repair, new restaurants, and real estate. I reach one advertising a free coupon to a hair salon. "Hey, I can get my hair done." I flip the shiny plastic page over. My brow furrows when they fall on the address. "Saige, look."

Saige leans over. "Ms. Kylie Willden?"

I shrug. "I have no idea."

The doorbell rings, and I drop the coupon. A pizza delivery girl stands outside, handing me a deliciously aromatic, extra-large box. I hand her a fifty-dollar tip, then bound over to the kitchen table.

"Dinner is served!" I lift the box to reveal eight huge slices. Fresh basil and tomatoes decorate the broiled, brown mozzarella, and parmesan dusts the charred crust. "Ooh, this looks so good." I tear a piece from the pie. The cheese stretches for days before it lands on my plate. I take a large bite. Hands down, this is the best pizza I've ever had.

Saige slowly approaches. I'm about to shove a slice in her mouth so she can join in on the deliciousness, but pause at her expression. She seems contemplative, edging toward suspicion.

"Have you looked into any of Tabitha's former employees?"

"No."

"Because I wonder if Ms. Kylie Willden used to work for Tabitha. Maybe she lived in this very apartment."

"Or Ms. Willden could've been the former owner before Tabitha bought the place. Heck, she could've lived here for months before."

Saige slides into a chair, gaze fixed on the cream-colored tablecloth. "Didn't you say there were some weird mugs when you got here?"

"Yeah." My mouth is full as I talk, and I bite off more steaming hot cheese, not caring that it's searing my mouth.

"And if you notice, all the other mail has Tabitha's name or 'current resident' listed. Nothing has your name on it. Nothing has had anyone else's name."

"I don't get your point."

Saige sighs, finally dipping into the pizza box. "I'm just saying that something isn't right here."

"Well, how do I find out anything about Kylie Willden?"

"I don't know. Try finding her Insta or something."

Reluctantly, I put my dinner down and retrieve my phone from the couch. I sit across from Saige at the table, gnawing on the last bit of pizza crust while I type Kylie's name into Instagram.

"No results," I announce. I try Facebook and LinkedIn, too, just to be sure. Far too many results show up on Facebook for me to sort through, but on LinkedIn, only five profiles show up. I click on each one.

The third one is a match. I gasp, spinning my phone around to show Saige. "You were right!"

"Really?" Saige's eyes widen, like even she had found her hypothesis a little outlandish.

"In her employment history, it only lists being a personal assistant to Tabitha Endlewood." I frown. "But wait, it says she's still employed by Tabitha."

"Maybe Tabitha has two personal assistants," Saige suggests. She takes a second bite of pizza, then says, "wow, this is really good."

"I suppose," I say, still invested in the screen. "But why wouldn't Tabitha tell me? And why am I living in Kylie's old apartment? And what's up with the mugs sitting in the back of my cupboard?"

"Is there any other stuff that seems out of place? Something Kylie left behind?"

"Not that I can tell."

Saige shrugs. "Maybe she just forgot them."

It's plausible. But at the same time, those cups seemed almost like keepsakes, memories of Kylie's college and maybe a special vacation she had somewhere to the beach. Would she really leave those memories behind?

She would... if she left in a hurry.

A sinking feeling shifts in my gut. I exit out of LinkedIn, this time trying good 'ol Google. The results slowly appear on screen. I scroll through them: realtors, a counselor, social media profiles that don't match Kylie's on LinkedIn.

My thumb freezes on the screen, hovering over a news article. I glance up at Saige, who's now shifted her focus to eating. Swallowing, I open the local news report.

21-Year-Old Kylie Willden Missing

Bile creeps up my throat. She went missing in March of this year. Her family, who live in Florida, reported as missing after losing all contact with her. They contacted her employer, Tabitha, who said that she was also concerned about Kylie after she stopped showing up for work.

If Tabitha was really so concerned, why didn't she report Kylie as missing?

I turn my phone facedown on the table. My food tastes more like cardboard now.

"Anything else?" Saige asks after a bit.

"Not really," I mumble. Saige nods after a beat, but all enthusiasm has died between us.

🕸 ✩⋆｡°🕸｡°⋆✩🕸

It's after midnight. Dusk darkens my bedroom windows, and the single, bright lamp on my bedside table casts shadows on the corners of my room. I scroll through my phone, squinting through blurred vision at the screen.

I click to enlarge a picture of tiny circular earbuds. They're smooth, white disks, similar to the ones belonging to the man from the opera and me, but a giant red logo taints the outside. I exit with a sigh. It's been an hour since I got into bed, prepared for blissful slumber.

A single nagging thought has kept me awake all this time.

Why did another person attend the same opera as me, bring the same earbuds as me, go to the same store as me, and try to buy the same fish as me?

I've been trying to write it off as a coincidence. But it isn't. It was obvious even when he appeared at the fish store, but now, when I can't find a single pair of plain, earbud disks for sale that resemble mine, that nothing about his actions were by accident.

Someone gave him the same instructions as me, the exact same tools as me.

And those earbuds... I can't believe I'm this worked up by a silly pair of earbuds. But there's something abnormal about them. There has to be. If I can't find anything resembling them on the market, then that means they were specially made.

Why?

Plugging my phone in, I turn the light out and finally allow myself to sink into my mattress. It feels good to take all that pressure off my bones, to just rest.

So what if someone has been given the same instructions as you? So what?

So what.

Why?

That single word hammers away inside my brain. I can't make sense of what's going on. My body begs for sleep, yet there's a portion of my mind that won't turn off.

Why? Why?

I roll over, clutching a hand to my head.

Why? Why?

Creak.

I bolt upright. My hand flies to my light switch, turning it on, and the darkness scatters once more from my room. Adrenaline replaces fatigue in my limbs. My ears are on hyper alert, but all that reaches me now is silence.

It's probably nothing. Just to be safe, I climb out of bed, pulling a hoodie over my t-shirt and sweatpants over my shorts. I peer outside my cracked bedroom door.

The living is dark, aside from the moon streaming through the glass terrace doors. My eyes work their way across the room to the kitchen on the far right side.

A shadow moves.

Fear jolts through me as a man emerges from behind the island. He's hunched over and prowls around the dining room table, pushing aside the tablecloth to look beneath it. He moves on to the couches, looking beneath those as well. Slowly, I back away from the door.

I need to call the police. I start for my phone, then hesitate. Won't he hear me on the phone if I try to call?

Saige. Saige can call for me. I race to my bedside table. Light blinds me when I grab my phone, and I blink rapidly while my thumbs fumble with my passcode. I glance back at the door, my heart pounding in my chest.

Two eyes meet my gaze.

My thumbs freeze on my lock screen. We stare at each other for a moment. The world goes still aside from the blood throbbing in my veins, gushing in my ears.

Then, very slowly, the man pushes the door open. In the dim light, I make out an object in his hand — a gun pointed straight at me.

"Put down the phone," he warns.

I do as I'm told. My shaking hands nearly drop the device on the floor, but it thuds against the wood. The man flips the light on. He looks nothing like I expected: black suit and tie, shiny leather shoes, and a black attache case. His dark brown hair is parted to the left and coated in gel, and the only blemish marking his smooth, pale skin is a scar by his ear.

That scar speaks volumes. I can't help but remember Kylie, who mysteriously disappeared.

Will I have the same fate as her? Will the last traces of my name be used in a news article?

"W-what do you want?" I ask.

In a deep voice, the man says, "I want the fish."