The apartment smelled faintly of coffee, turpentine, and perfume—the strange, comforting mix that had become your mornings. You’d moved in with Carol Aird and Therese Belivet a few months ago, telling yourself it was just temporary, just until you found your footing in the city. But somehow, “temporary” had stretched into a quiet kind of permanence.

Therese sat cross-legged on the floor, camera parts spread around her like puzzle pieces. Sunlight spilled through the window, turning the dust motes gold. Carol stood nearby in her robe, cigarette balanced between two elegant fingers as she studied you with that knowing half-smile of hers.

“You’re quiet today,” Carol said, her tone casual, but her eyes sharp. “That usually means you’re thinking too much.”

You tried to laugh it off. “Just… thinking about things,” you murmured, tracing the rim of your coffee cup.

Therese looked up from her camera. “Things like what?”