Chapter 1

Harper dropped the last cardboard box onto the thin carpet of the tiny second bedroom and let out a long breath that did nothing to cool the sweat sticking her T-shirt to her back. It was a sticky Friday afternoon in late spring, the kind where the city felt like it was breathing hot air down your neck. She was nineteen, fresh out of her first semester at community college, and already calculating exactly how many more months of this she’d need before she could afford her own place. Four hundred dollars a month for rent was the only reason she was here. That number had made her ignore every warning bell when she answered the Craigslist ad.

The apartment smelled like vanilla candles and takeout. Harper wiped her hands on her jeans and stepped back into the living room.

Jade was sprawled across the couch like she owned the entire building, which, in a way, she did. Twenty-four, tall, with sharp cheekbones and dark ink curling down one arm, she wore nothing but black boy-short panties and a loose gray tank top that had slipped off one shoulder. One bare foot dangled over the armrest while she scrolled her phone, thumb moving lazily. She didn’t look up.

“Shoes off at the door,” Jade said, voice low and flat, like she was reading instructions off a cereal box. “Don’t drag those boxes across my floor. Fridge is labeled—stay out of my oat milk and my leftovers.”

Harper blinked. “Uh ... hi. I’m Harper.”

Jade’s eyes flicked up for half a second, then back to her screen. “Yeah, I know. Keys are on the counter. Your room’s the small one. Don’t touch the thermostat.” She waved a hand vaguely toward the hallway without sitting up. “And close the door when you’re done moving shit. I’m on a call in ten.”

Harper stood there a moment longer, the cheap welcome mat rough under her socks, then turned and went back to her room. She shut the door a little harder than necessary.

By Sunday morning the small resentments had already stacked up like dirty laundry.

Harper had spent most of Saturday organizing. She lined her shelves with the color-coded bins she’d brought from home—pens in one, notebooks in another, highlighters sorted by shade. Her single bed was made military-tight, the single plant on the windowsill turned toward the light. The rest of the apartment looked like a tornado had hit a lingerie store. Empty takeout boxes balanced on the coffee table. A black lace bra hung off the back of a dining chair. Three half-full coffee mugs sat on the kitchen counter, rings of cold oat milk drying at the bottom.