Chapter 2: Gossip and Warnings
The humid chug of the washing machines filled the laundry room, a steady, mindless rhythm that Anastasia wished she could lose herself in. She focused on the simple, methodical task of folding a fitted sheet, her movements sharp and precise. It was better than thinking. Better than remembering the feel of coarse couch fabric on her bare back, the weight of him, the tearing sound of her buttons hitting the floor.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his dark, focused gaze. You look like trouble.
She shook her head, trying to dislodge the memory like a stubborn bit of lint.
The door creaked open, breaking the mechanical spell. Mrs. Rodriguez shuffled in, a wicker basket propped on her hip. Her eyes, sharp and miss-nothing brown, landed on Anastasia immediately.
“Anastasia! Mija, I haven’t seen you in days.” She set her basket down on the machine next to Anastasia’s with a soft thud. “You are working too hard, I think. You look tired.”
Anastasia forced a smile, not meeting her gaze. “Just busy, Mrs. Rodriguez. Deadlines.”
“Sí, sí, deadlines.” The older woman began unloading her clothes, a slow, deliberate process. The air filled with the scent of lavender detergent and something uniquely old-lady-ish—talcum powder and mint. “I saw your friend, the musician, leaving very early this morning. Carrying his guitar case. Looked like he was in a hurry.”
Anastasia’s hands stilled on the sheet. Her heart gave a single, hard thump against her ribs. “He’s not my friend.”
“No?” Mrs. Rodriguez chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. “My mistake. It is just, you are the only one he does not complain about. To me, anyway. He complains about the man in 4C, the couple in 2A… but you, up in 4B? Never a word.” She paused, holding up one of her husband’s large, white undershirts. “A man who makes that much noise but never complains about his upstairs neighbor… it makes you wonder what is happening up there to keep him so quiet, no?”
Anastasia felt a hot flush creep up her neck. She concentrated fiercely on creating a perfect corner on her sheet.
“He is a complicated boy, that one,” Mrs. Rodriguez continued, her tone conversational but her eyes missing nothing. “Tan guapo, so handsome, but with a dark cloud. You know he spent time in juvie when he was a boy? Back in Texas. Something with a stolen car, I heard. Or maybe it was a fight. The stories, they get mixed up.”
The words landed like stones in the humid room. Juvie. Anastasia’s carefully constructed image of him—the rebellious artist, the harmless bad boy—splintered. A criminal past felt different. It felt real.
“I really don’t know anything about him,” Anastasia said, her voice tighter than she intended.
“Of course not, querida. Why would you?” Mrs. Rodriguez nodded sagely. She reached into her basket and pulled out a final item, holding it up by the tip of one finger. “But it is good to be careful. Men like that… they do not just break sound systems.”
Dangling from her finger was a robe. An emerald green, silk robe. Anastasia’s robe.
It was torn cleanly down the front, the delicate silk ripped from the collar to the waist, the edges frayed. It swung gently, a ghost of the previous night, a banner of her own spectacular bad judgment.
Anastasia’s blood ran cold. She had spent the morning convinced she’d gathered all the torn pieces from his floor, clutching them to her chest as she fled. She’d forgotten the fire escape. He must have tossed it out there, a careless, thoughtless act, and the wind had done the rest.
Mrs. Rodriguez’s eyes were soft with a pity that felt worse than accusation. “This fell onto my petunias. From his fire escape, I think.” She didn’t wait for an explanation. She simply reached out, took Anastasia’s limp hand, and pressed the cold, torn silk into her palm. Then, she pressed something else into it. Small. Metal.
A key.
“Careful, querida,” Mrs. Rodriguez murmured, her voice barely a whisper over the rumble of the dryers. “Men like that… they break hearts, too.”
She closed Anastasia’s fingers around the key and the silk, gave her hand a gentle pat, and turned back to her laundry as if she had just commented on the weather.
Anastasia stood frozen, the cold metal and the ruined silk burning her skin. The hum of the machines seemed to grow louder, filling her head. A stolen car. A fight. Juvie. The words swirled with the memory of his hands on her, his mouth, the possessive, degrading things he’d whispered in the dark.
He was a stranger. A dangerous one.
She looked down at the key in her hand. It was simple, brass, unmarked. A spare key to his apartment. An invitation, or a warning.
The final, folding cycle of her machine chimed, a bright, innocent sound that shattered the moment. She didn’t move. She just stood there, clutching the evidence of her night and the means to repeat it, while the clean, fresh scent of her own laundry began to steam the air around her.