A Little Too Twisted

chapter 1

A Little Too Twisted written by Isabelle Ronin. All rights reserved.

A/N: Please note that this is the first draft of my story. It has not been professionally edted, editeed, edated, edited or profreed, prufred, proofread, pureed.

Diana

I am doomed.

It's five minutes before seven and I'm going to be late. In a panic to get to the shower, I jump out of bed and pull my pajama top off, but it gets stuck in my armpit and my forehead.

"Shit, shit, and everything shit!"

I don't even bother groaning when I faceplant on the cold hardwood floor. I simply lay there, questioning my life choices. I'm not usually all over the place; it's only when I'm in a hurry.

Yeah, right.

Then it hits me. It's Sunday today. I grin.

I'm going to be sorry about these bruises later, but the thought of having the day all to myself instantly perks up my mood. In my head, the bruises are already magically fading away.

I pull my top completely off and throw it in the laundry bin, slide into a gray hoodie that I only wore once (maybe twice) and the matching yoga pants.

From my third-floor apartment, I can see the view of the green forest. The light and shadows the trees make dance through the window to my floor. It produces a pretty picture. I walk to my window and open it, letting in the fresh air. The breeze brings the sweet scent of morning grass, the sky is clear and blue, and it feels peaceful.

It's so unlike the phone call I had last night. But I'm not thinking about that.

I lean against the window ledge, close my eyes, and take a moment to appreciate the view. I've only lived here a few months, but out of all the places where I have stayed, this is my favourite.

It's an old but well-maintained red brick building. It's three-stories high with cathedral windows and arched doors, two chimneys on either side of the roof, and a raised front entrance that looks very grand and dramatic with four columns supporting the covered portico.

The wood floors creak and are probably as old as the house—over a hundred years old—but they look perfect and shine from constant polishing. The hallways are always clean and smell with a hint of mint and lemon. In the spring and summer, the flowers bloom in a riot of colours and perfume the air with something sweet and gentle. The building feels beloved, has character, and charms me.

It would have been perfect but for one secret.

The top floor only has two suites, with the suite number punched in a brass plate on the door. 301 belongs to Viola, the sassy and energetic seventy-year-old woman who reminds me of a chihuahua—her small body is carried by her even smaller legs, and when she walks, she walks so fast that you barely see her feet touch the ground. Her big, round eyes make her look harmless, but underneath it all she's a shark. I can't help but love her. She owns the building and is best friends with my grandmother.

I met Viola when I was nine. My grandmother lives in Alberta, and we would take the bus to visit Viola. I remember the sleepovers, the cookies and milk, the puppy. It's one of my happiest childhood memories.

And that is most likely why I'm in 302—the only suite that was unoccupied in the whole building, and Viola never rents it out. Until I arrived.

It's a lot of space for one person, excessively so, and I'm only paying half the rent. There is a reason for the perk. The suite is a three-bedroom, but two of the bedrooms are absolutely off-limits. I am not supposed to go inside at all costs. Viola didn't say why and I didn't ask. I wasn't about to look the gift horse in the mouth.