My Guest in Apartment 10B

When in doubt, use flypaper

A chill ran down her spine as she assessed the mess of broken eggs. There was still a single egg on the counter, a lonely survivor, among the murdered ones.

Could Richard really have found her here? But she was hundreds of miles away!

Arabella ran to the doors and exhaled a pent-up breath after discovering that the locks were intact. She dangled the chains with her fingers just to be sure, tugging tightly against the cool metal braids and watched the knots hold their place.

He wasn't here.

It must have been rats, there could be no other explanation for this.

Examining the sticky spillage, Arabella skipped to the places where the flooring was free of goo. Although a rat infestation could be a troublesome affair, she considered it to be a minor problem, one that she could definitely deal with in just a few days.

"I know you're here," she said aloud, as she started to pick up broken eggshells from the floor. "You won't get anything from me, but I will get you."

The rats probably didn't speak English, but it was not the time to dwell on that when she was making her threats. "If you don't stop taking my food, I'll make sure to trap you and set you in boiling water."

Gathering up all the eggshells from the marble-tiled floors, she dropped them in a nearby bin. "So you better run out before I find you!"

Begrudgingly, she took out the rag and mop and started wiping the place spotless, placing the solitary egg securely between the dish rack and the cooking tool canister.

"Let's see you rats try and push this out this time!"

How would she make the cupcakes now? She needed eggs. Again!

Her eyes spotted the oven and marveled at the black glass. It was a good brand, a foreign brand that had a temperature gauge in Celsius rather than the usual Fahrenheit. Cupcakes and a few simple dishes would be her source of nutrition in the days to come. She didn't know how to make anything else, and when she was settled in, she vowed to learn other complicated recipes—perhaps, even learn recipes that had been passed down from generation to generation.

Arabella pulled her bag off the hook and exchanged her room slippers for outside shoes. She gave the apartment one last sweep, keys dangling between her fingers before exiting the apartment with a loud bang. Sighing, she quickly locked the room and pressed on the elevator button multiple times.

It hadn't been 24 hours and she was already impatient with the elevator. If she kept this up, she would probably find herself using the stairs in a week's time.

"Hello."

What! Mrs. Rothschild gave her a start. The old lady suddenly appeared beside her without any warning.

"I was wondering if you are going down? Would you mind getting my mail?"

"Sure thing, Mrs. Rothschild," she said sweetly, nodding as the elevator doors opened and she stepped in. "Would you like me to hold the door for you?"

"Hmm?" She returned her smile.

Ah, right. Louder for the people at the back. "WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO HOLD THE DOOR FOR YOU?"

The old lady shook her head and carefully moved away from the slowly closing elevator doors. This was going to take forever.

Finally, after what seemed like 45 years, Arabella found herself on the pavement of 14th street. The streetlights gave the community a new life, and the bustling crowds were walking at a much more leisurely pace now that rush hour was over. She walked a few steps westward and immediately saw a sign that said Tchaikovsky's Groceries.