Chapter 10: The Empty Apartment
The apartment smelled like sesame oil and something sweeter underneath—plum wine, maybe, or the patchouli candle Annalise had burned down to a nub three weeks ago and never replaced. Tom dropped his keys in the ceramic bowl by the door. The clatter echoed through the dark hallway.
No answer.
He found her in the kitchen.
She was sitting on the floor with her back against the lower cabinets, legs crossed at the ankles, a carton of lo mein balanced on her knee. His old university sweatshirt hung off one shoulder, the collar stretched wide enough to show the pale curve of her collarbone. Her hair was a mess—unbrushed, tangled at the ends, like she'd been running her fingers through it for hours.
The overhead light was off. Just the bare bulb above the stove, flickering the way it always did when the building's wiring got moody. It cast her in a sickly orange glow.
"Hey," he said.
She looked up. Her eyes were rimmed red, but her face was dry.
"I couldn't cook," she said.
He set his bag down. Took off his jacket. Hung it on the back of a chair that was already piled with laundry.
"I kept thinking about the cricket," she said. "The one I stepped on in Ramirez's office. I couldn't stop seeing it. The way its legs went everywhere."
Tom lowered himself to the floor across from her. The linoleum was cold through his jeans. Their knees almost touched.
"There's takeout," she said, gesturing vaguely at the containers scattered around her. "I got too much. I don't know why."
He pulled a carton toward him. Opened it. Cold dumplings, half-eaten.
They ate in silence.
The radiator clanked. Somewhere down the hall, a neighbor's TV murmured through the wall—a laugh track, muffled, distant. Annalise picked at her lo mein with chopsticks, never actually bringing anything to her mouth. Tom watched her. She watched the floor.
After a while, she set the carton aside and crawled into his lap.
She was warm. Heavier than he expected—she always was, in a way he liked. Her thighs settled on either side of his hips. Her hands found his shoulders. Her breath was sour with wine, but underneath it, there was her—that smell he'd know anywhere. Clean sweat. The faint chemical tang of her deodorant. Something floral she'd stopped wearing months ago but never quite washed out of his sweatshirt.
Her lips brushed his ear.
"There's a spider in the bathroom," she murmured.
His hands tightened on her hips.
"I haven't killed it."
He said nothing.
"I've been staring at it for an hour." Her voice was low. Almost ashamed. "Maybe longer. I lost track."
"How big?"
"Small. Legs like threads. It's just hanging there, above the sink, like it's waiting for something."
Tom's throat was dry. His fingers found the hem of the sweatshirt, the bare skin underneath. She wasn't wearing anything else. He'd known that already—had seen it when he walked in—but touching it was different. Confirming it.
"Show me," he said.
She pulled back. Looked at him. Her pupils were wide, dark, searching his face for something he wasn't sure he could give.
Then she stood.
She led him by the hand. Her fingers were cold. The hallway was dark, the bedroom darker, but the bathroom light was on—she'd left it on—and it spilled yellow across the floor like a wound.
The spider was exactly where she'd said.
Above the sink, just below the medicine cabinet, a small brown body suspended from a thread so thin it was almost invisible. It wasn't moving. Just hanging. Waiting.
Tom stood in the doorway. Annalise stood beside him, her shoulder pressed against his arm.
Neither of them moved.
"This is harder than I thought," she said.
Her voice cracked on the last word. Just a little. Just enough.
Tom kissed her shoulder. The bare skin above the sweatshirt collar. She tasted like salt.
"For me too," he said.
They stood there for a long time. The spider didn't move. The light buzzed. Annalise's hand found his and squeezed—hard, too hard, her nails biting into his palm.
"I want to," she whispered. "I want to so bad."
"I know."
"It's right there. It would take two seconds."
"I know."
"But I'm not going to."
He turned his head. Looked at her. Her jaw was tight. Her eyes were wet.
"Why not?"
She didn't answer right away. She just stared at the spider, at its stillness, at the fragile thread that held it in place.
"Because you asked me not to," she said finally.
His chest ached.
"No," he said. "I didn't."
She looked at him. Confused.
"Ramirez asked us not to. That's different."
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah." He let go of her hand. Put his arm around her waist instead. Pulled her closer. "It matters."
She leaned into him. Her head dropped to his shoulder. Her hair smelled like smoke and sleep.
"I hate this," she said.
"Me too."
"I hate that I can't just—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I hate that you've seen that part of me. The part that likes it. And now you're making me put it away."
"I'm not making you do anything."
"You said you'd leave."
The words hit him like a fist.
"What?"
"If we can't do it. If we can't stop. You said—" Her voice broke. "You said we'd have to decide what that means. What if it means you leave?"
He hadn't said that. Ramirez had. But he understood. He'd heard it the same way she had.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said.
"You don't know that."
"Yes I do."
She pulled back. Looked at him. Her face was open in a way he'd never seen—raw, unguarded, terrified.
"How?"
He reached up. Touched her cheek. His thumb traced the line of her jaw.
"Because I love you," he said. "Not the version of you that kills things. Not the version that makes me feel seen. Just you. All of it. Even the parts I don't understand."
She closed her eyes.
The spider hung above the sink. Unmoving. Unaware.
"I don't know how to be that person," she whispered.
"Neither do I."
Her eyes opened. They were bright with tears.
"So what do we do?"
He looked at the spider. Small. Brown. Legs like threads. It had no idea how much of their lives had just been draped over it, like a net, like a noose.
"We watch," he said. "We wait. And we figure it out."
She laughed—wet, broken, but real.
"That's the worst plan I've ever heard."
"Yeah." He kissed her forehead. "It is."
She turned off the bathroom light.
They walked back to the kitchen, hand in hand, and sat down on the cold floor among the takeout containers and the empty wine bottle and the flickering overhead bulb. His sweatshirt had slipped off her shoulder again. She didn't fix it.
The spider stayed where it was.
Above the sink.
Waiting.