I stood for a moment at the threshold, looking into the kitchen ahead of me.

It was narrow like mine, but instead of a wall at the end, it had been opened up onto the living room. A sparkling stainless-steel cooker sat on one side, hugged by white cupboards and faux wood counterspace. On the other, a sink sat looking out over the back lane and my yard.

I inched forward, giving the world outside one more look before I turned and shut the door behind me. I could hear the soft muffled voices of the police downstairs and the low thumping of footsteps as they echoed against the wooden floors. I wondered if they would hear me up here, or if I too would be silent just as Book Boy was.

As if aware I was analysing his silence, Book Boy broke it. "Black one sugar?" he asked.

I nodded, pushing aside how he knew my coffee order.

He flipped on the kettle with a satisfying clunk. It looked brand new, but then again most of the furniture in the flat did. I reasoned that maybe this was their first unfurnished place. Perhaps if I'd had the money, mine could have looked just like this when I first moved in.

I sidled past Book Boy to the living room while he busied himself gathering cups and finding the sugar. The large square living room before me was a blank canvas with pristine white walls and gleaming glossed woodwork. Even the floor seemed to shine, like the floorboards had been freshly varnished and left untouched. I'd never seen the flat when the old lady was living up here, but it looked like it had been redecorated since she'd left. Either that or she'd been the first old woman I'd known who didn't have an obsession with all things chintz.

As my eyes cast over the room, I noted with envy how clean it all was. Impossibly clean. Usually old houses like this one seemed to produce dust. Whether it was the small delicate cobwebs nestled in the ceiling roses, or the residue of soot compressed in the cracks of the ornate fireplaces. No matter how meticulous the occupant was, they were never completely clean. Somehow, this flat was.

I looked around at the sparse furniture. The room had everything it needed to have, a plush L-shaped sofa, an expensive looking TV, a low oval coffee table perfectly positioned to place a morning coffee. It was all very ordinary, but there was something off about it.

"Gina said you lived here with someone else," I said as I hovered. The sofa looked plump and inviting, but at the same time it looked like it had never been sat on.

"Yes, Olivia."

"Girlfriend?" I asked as I fiddled with my fingernails, picking nervously at the remainder of the dark nail polish.

"No." He smirked as he came towards me, a spotless white cup steaming with hot coffee.

I nodded as I took the hot cup from him and made a mental note to tell Emma and Callum of his single status. They didn't seem fazed by any of Book Boy's weirdness.

The coffee burned my lips as I took a tentative sip. The scolding liquid trickled down my throat, and I felt myself relax. Now I was here, coffee in hand, and Book Boy lounging against the arm of the sofa, I wondered why I had been so nervous in the first place. For all his weirdness, I couldn't say I ever really felt unsafe around him. Perplexed, bewildered, incensed, maybe, but never unsafe.

Feeling bold, I took another sip of coffee and made my way over to the bookcase. It was in a similar place to my own, although this one was free standing rather than built into the alcove.

My shrewd eyes scanned the shelves. It was almost as full as mine. I raised my eyebrows in surprise as I noted we shared similar tastes, which was odd given my penchant for melodramatic romances and the supernatural.

"Are these Olivia's?"

"Some, why?"

"Just wondering," I said lightly but suspicion was creeping on my skin.

My eyes raced over the book titles, counting off the ones I knew I had downstairs. I placed my cup on top of the fireplace, and pulled a book free, flicking through the pages. The spine still felt stiff, and the pages caught each other as they unfurled. The way they did when new book was opened for the first time.

I pushed the book back into place. I looked over the other stories stacked on the shelves. Now I examined them, every book looked brand new. No creases on the spine, no worn edges. No sign of wear and tear at all.

The DVDs were the same. There were some generic action movies thrown into the mix, but within moments of looking I could see they had the same films as me.

I plucked another book from the shelf. It was one of my favourites. Idly, I thumbed through the pages. The fresh acerbic scent of ink and paper emanated from the pages.

"Have you read this? The Picture of Dorian Gray?" I queried.

"Of course. Oscar Wilde's story of a fashionable young man who sells his soul for eternal youth and beauty," Book Boy recounted as he came to stand beside me.

"One of my favourites." I turned to look at him.

"It's a classic. Why do you like it?" He looked over the other book titles as if trying to understand what had drawn me to this particular book instead of the others.

"I like that it shows fantasy within reality. I believe the line between the two is a little blurred rather than being black and white." As I finished, Book Boy watched me with a new wary light in his cerulean eyes.

"What did you think of it?" I asked.

"I think what began as a supposed depraved and decadent novella, now seems more like an arresting, and slightly camp, exercise in late-Victorian gothic."

The words rattled off his tongue like an actor running lines in a well-rehearsed play.

"OK, I wasn't looking for a literary review." I frowned as I slowly slotted the book back into place. The cover seemed to sigh as it slid back to fit snugly between its neighbours. "I meant what did you like about it?"

He paused. Not like a person in thought, but more like the kind of floundering pause a student takes when they're asked a question, and they don't know the answer.

Eventually, he spoke, "I think it's an entertaining parable of the aesthetic ideal."

Despite his enigmatic expression, the words sounded flat, and his eyes showed none of the ardour his words expressed.

"Have you actually read it?"

"Yes."

"So, you read it, but it didn't make you feel anything? There wasn't any part of it that resonated with you?"

He looked at me blankly. "I just said..."

"You said words, but you didn't mean them. I could hear it. It was like you were reciting something from an English Lit thesis."

For one long moment, he looked baffled. His eyes widened, and his mouth gaped, as he stood speechless. It was a pause that lasted no longer than a beat or two, but it was long enough to confirm what I'd suspected as soon as I saw the books on the shelf.

"Cut the bullshit, Book Boy."

"Excuse me?" he chuckled, although his tone was careful and reserved.

"For weeks now you've been hovering around me. You like what I like. You laugh at all my awful jokes. You always have that smile on your face." I glared at him as the pieces slipped into place. As they did, I felt the same satisfaction I got from slotting the book back on the shelf.

I glanced at the steaming cup of coffee on the fireplace. "I mean, for fuck's sake, you know how I like my coffee, and I know I sure as shit I haven't told you."

My hands waved around the flat as I talked, my voice becoming more cutting as each syllable left my lips. Every second I stood there I saw more evidence that fuelled my frustration. The DVD collection that almost mirrored my own. The way there was just enough furniture in the flat to make it look filled, but not enough of anything else to make it look lived in. It was like he'd furnished the flat for this very moment. Like he somehow thought he could win over my subconscious by displaying a few choice items.

"And that annoys you?" he asked, seemingly confused by my outburst.

"It's all a lie. I can see it in your eyes."

"Anna, I've got no reason to lie you," he tried to reassure me with a blinding but blank smile. His tone of voice just riled me further. It was the same soothing tenor Mr R had used on me. It was supposed to be calming, but with time it had become nothing but irritating.

"Have it your way," I hissed as I turned to leave. "You want to keep up this little act? Be my guest, but I'm not going to stick around to lap it up."

I stormed to the kitchen door in a matter of seconds.

"Anna, wait."

His voice was different, it wrapped around my name in a way it hadn't before. Against my better judgement, I paused and looked back. My eyes met his, and I could see a glimmer of honesty. That glint I'd seen a handful of times before, when he seemed like a different person. It never stayed for long before it faded from sight, and he went back to the strange robotic smiles and clamouring compliments. Back to saying the things I should want to hear, yet found myself rebelling against nonetheless.

"What?" I asked. The 't' punctuating the silence sharply. I stood waiting with my hand wrapped around the door handle.

His eyes searched mine before glancing to the black book lying on the coffee table beside him. I didn't know what that book meant to him, but whatever it was, it changed his expression entirely. The glimmer of honesty disappeared from view, and it took his pleading expression with it. No emotion took its place, instead he looked at me with blank unseeing eyes. His perfect chiselled face eerily detached.

"Nothing," he murmured while his eyes looked through me.

I wrenched open the door, slamming it in place before racing down the metal stairs to my yard. I was glad to see the police had left when I got back into the flat. As promised, they'd blocked up the broken window with a piece of chipboard. It was ugly but effective. The rest of the mess was still there, and after being in the untouched flat upstairs, it seemed even more chaotic.

I growled as I threw myself onto the sofa and thought of what had just happened.

My eyes scoured the bookshelves in front of me, it was like looking at a replica of the one upstairs. Distrust and frustration made the hairs on my arms stand on end, like my body was electrified with my wrath.

I'd known there was something off about his interest in me. I'd told myself to ignore it, to endure the uneasy feeling wriggling under my skin. I'd ignored my instincts all because a beautiful boy asked me to. When was I going to learn?

It wasn't even the fact he'd pretended to like the same things as me. Countless boys had done that over the years. Sometimes it was endearing, the fact they put that much effort into learning my interests just so they could spark a moment of conversation. No, it was more than that. It was the fact he'd lied. Not just about the things he liked, but everything. He'd built this person in my mind, and now it was like he was just hollow. An enchanting facade with nothing underneath. Like buying a gold ring only to find out it's just plated copper. Eventually, all you're left with is a green finger and disappointment.

I stomped to the fridge and pulled out the bottle of white wine. I didn't bother getting a glass, instead I slumped on the sofa and chugged it from the bottle. As I felt the cool liquid flow down my throat, I felt my rage start to dim to a dull disappointment.

Nightmare joined me on the sofa, chirping as she settled beside me.

"He fooled you too."

She just stared at me, glancing once at the bottle hanging limp in my hand. I could have sworn I saw disapproval in her lime green eyes.

I went to stroke her, but she shifted away from my hand. Her back arching downwards, to avoid the contact.

"I'm not the bad guy here," I huffed, taking another swig from the bottle. She gave me a blank look before dropping off the sofa and padding through to the kitchen. I heard her scrabble out the kitchen window, leaving to prowl through the coming darkness.

The silence in the flat felt like it was pressing against my eardrums. A soft static buzz ringing in my ears. I took another glug of wine, draining the bottle.

I thought about getting up and putting it in the bin but, after one look around me, I just let it drop to the floor. I already had a mountain of mess to tidy up tomorrow, what was one more thing.

I felt my body get sluggish as the alcohol and the weight of the day seeped through my body, its influence slowing my thoughts and numbing my skin. After a long while, I drifted to sleep, memories of Book Boy and his lies fading from my thoughts.