The next morning, Vicky naturally woke up just before dawn, a long-engrained Monday morning habit. She stretched and rolled out of bed, craving her favorite coffee from Nancy's Breakfast Bakery, as usual. Refusing to check the news yet, she set up her yoga mat in the living room to bend her way through a few sun salutations to get her body and mind prepared for the demands of the coming day.

There would be the police to handle and her job hunt to tackle. No doubt a few of her family members had sent messages or left voicemails of concern-glazed curiosity she needed to answer, given her out-of-character radio silence all weekend. With a bit of luck, word of Mason's duplicity and her own humiliation remained a footnote in the local news. The last thing she wanted was for Claire's honeymoon in Florida to be overshadowed by her own thunderclouds. Time enough when she and Colton returned for Vicky to drop her bombshell.

By the time she completed her practice and stowed the neatly rolled mat on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, she'd settled on a rough plan for the day. She intended to keep to her usual schedule as much as possible, filling her typical work hours with applying for new positions and catching up on her messages in the morning, and contacting the police in the afternoon, if they didn't contact her sooner. More optimistic now, she hurried to dress casually and pull her hair back for the day. She slipped into her favorite running shoes and grabbed her phone, purse, and keys before heading out, careful to set the deadbolt before walking to the elevator.

When the heavy steel doors parted at the lobby level, she took an involuntary step backwards, away from the sudden assault of crowding strangers, multiple voices shouting, and flashing lights. Had she requested the wrong floor? An imperious voice in her head sang of "A Puzzlement," and she agreed with it. The indicator screen inside the elevator displayed an 'l', but the room was hardly recognizable. She rarely met another resident coming or going, but never had so many bodies filled this small space. From her limited point of view, she thought she saw still more people outside the glass front door, prevented from joining the throng inside by the coded keypad. Before she could wonder about how the group within had gained entry and shut the others out, the man closest to her glanced over and spotted her.

He shouted something over the cacophony she didn't understand. At once, every head in the room swung her direction, and a moment later, the people coalesced into a mob, and pressed toward her. Microphones bristled from the press of bodies, and cameras and cell phones were lifted high in hopes of a better view. Just when she thought she might be trapped in the elevator, Phil shoved through the crowd, yelling about trespassing and calling the cops.

His sudden appearance seemed to shock the room, and a path between him and her appeared as though by design. Still hollering, he nudged her farther into the metal box, waving his arms wildly at two men in trench coats who tried to follow him. Vicky stretched an arm along the wall to tap the button for the top floor, the closest one she could reach, just to get the doors to close between the frothing tide of reporters and herself. A beep signaled her request had been heard, and the doors groaned into motion. One of the men lurched forward, hand extended as though to halt their escape. Phil drove him back by mirroring his motion while lapsing into his native German, making his threats seem more ominous. At last the seam closed and the hydraulics hummed, sending them up and away.

Vicky allowed herself one shuddering deep breath before pasting on a smile and facing a now quiet Phil. "Thank you so much for running interference out there. What on earth was that?"

He stared at her for a minute before saying, "Perhaps you can tell me."

"What? I don't know them, nor did I let them in. I was heading out for my usual pre-work fuel up when I got stuck, just how you found me. Why are you asking me for information I don't have?"

"They demanded to know if Mason Plather's assistant still lived at this address when they started arriving, around sunrise. I remember you mentioned him a few times, but they didn't know your name, only your position. I said I couldn't let them in without a code or your okay, and a couple of them threw a fit. One accosted another resident as they left, forcing their way through the lobby door before it closed. More followed until one slammed it closed to keep out more of the competition. They clearly lacked knowledge of your unit number—and I wasn't about to give it to them—so they settled for harassing anyone trying to get their mail and each other while waiting for you."

He reached for her and patted her shoulder. "I already called the police, and there are officers on the way. Everything will be all right. I know you had nothing to do with that man's vile dealings. No one who let her dying brother move in with her and took care of him as you did could be so cruel."

The elevator beeped as it reached the top floor, but Phil pulled a key from his pocket and used it to override the doors opening. He then pressed a pair of unlabeled buttons at the bottom of the panel, and they began to descend again. Vicky's heart stuttered, thinking of facing the chaotic crowd again. However, the "L" flickered past without hesitation.

Phil spoke confidently, "Just you wait. In a few days, they will forget all about this business and move on to the next scandal. Until then, I'll keep you away from the vultures."

The elevator whined to a stop. When it released them, the view was unimpressive, just a dimly lit bare concrete space with a roll-up door, currently closed. She thought she spotted a regular door in the shadows beside the roll-up, but couldn't be sure. She looked back at Phil.

He waved a hand at the room. "This was intended to facilitate the transport of large items to the upper floors, but the steep ramp to get down here turned out to be more of a hindrance to moving trucks than the builders anticipated. As a result, it is little used anymore, and the last manager told me he suggested the area be permanently blocked off. The plans were made but never completed. Now most people assume that the work was done and that the overgrown access ramp leads nowhere. You'll be able to come and go safely this way. Just text me when you need to come and go. With its intended use so limited, this space does not connect to the main stairs, and it's not a public option for the elevator, so I'll have to use the master key to give you access."

Relief loosened her care for proprieties, and she wrapped her arms around Phil in her best imitation of a bear hug. "Thank you so much for this!"

He laughed and squeezed back so tight her vision went a bit gray. "My pleasure, my dear. You remind me a bit of my own daughter, bless her soul. She lives in New York with her own growing family now, and I don't see her as often as I would like." He pulled back and scolded playfully, "Of course, she doesn't need me hanging around. You wouldn't need me either, if you had a husband like hers. Where is your man?"

Her heart sank. The closest thing she had to a man was the shadow singer from the past two evenings, and she didn't even know his name. In previous relationships, every time she got her hopes up, thinking that this man would be The One, she'd ruined it. She eventually came on too strong, and the men inevitably ran. She shook off the clinging memories of heartbreak, along with the opening notes of "I Have Dreamed," and braced herself to give a brief but honest response to the question.

Phil didn't wait for her answer. He grabbed her hand and tugged her to the side of the roll-up and poked another key at a barely visible knob. Sooner than she expected, sunlight flooded into the space, and a blast of wind lifted her hair. The hum of distant traffic was the only sound.

"Get on with you, then. Text me when you get back, and I'll let you back in this way. See you later!" And the door clicked shut behind her.

Vicky jogged toward her car, parked around the side of the building. Hopefully the reporters would be too obsessed with getting to her unit to wander away from the lobby entrance and she could make a clean getaway. Her heart thundered, urged into a frenzy by adrenaline and more than a little fear. When "I Whistle a Happy Tune" from the King and I movie began to play in her mind, she hummed along, forcing herself to focus on the song and not all the new possibilities for personal disaster she could imagine.

She turned the corner of the building and glanced around. Nothing beyond a couple of passing cars blocked her view of her little green sedan, bringing a smile to her face. Her head swiveled as she crossed to the vehicle, but no hidden flashes interrupted her dash. She arrived with a sigh of relief and aimed her remote to disengage the lock, still scanning her surroundings rather than looking at the vehicle. When she heard the locks click open, she fumbled for the handle, finally having to look down to grab it. She hesitated a moment, trying to process what she saw. When it registered, she yanked her hand away and jumped back, earning a horn blast from a car speeding by.

Heart pounding as though to break her ribs, she stared at the damage. Blood red letters on the silver side panels spelled out, "Guilty!" The mirror was obscured with dark drips of shiny red liquid, as well. On shaky legs, she rounded the bumper to see a different message on the other side: "Criminal!" The other mirror had received a similar treatment to its twin, and she shuddered at the nagging thought that the substance could be blood, rather than paint.

When passing traffic was momentarily absent, she resolutely leaned close to sniff the desecration. A tiny inhalation, followed by a deeper one, revealed no scent of iron or decay, only nail polish and lipstick. Both would be a pain in the neck to remove, but clean up wouldn't require the help of a body shop or the police. Careful to avoid touching the lipstick, she popped open the door and reached for her stash of napkins in the glove compartment. Then she saw the note.

Vicky grew up in Los Angeles county, learning young that any car left unlocked could be stolen and recovered as a bare frame, if it was ever found again at all. She also knew to keep her car neat, lest a thief break in searching for valuables under tossed aside paper scraps or discarded jackets. Even under stress as she had been two days ago, she wouldn't have forgotten a torn section of folded white paper on the passenger seat. How did the scrap get into her locked car?

Not wanting to face the contents of the mystery note before coffee flowed in her veins, she left it where it lay and retrieved enough napkins to scrub the majority of the defacement from the car's paint, after she snapped a couple of pictures with her phone. The polish she left alone, hoping no one would comment on the "decoration" before she got her caffeine fix. Satisfied she's done enough for now, she slid behind the wheel and drove as fast as she dared to her favorite breakfast shop. If there ever was a morning she craved her legal drug rush, this was it.