Chapter 2: The Mark, the Bribe, and the Threat

I didn’t go out to get the takeout right away. Instead, I went to the kitchen, grabbed a boning knife, and waited quietly. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. What if this was some kind of setup?

I crouched by the door, knife in hand, breathing hard. My mind raced through worst-case scenarios—what if someone tried to force their way in? What if it wasn’t just food out there? I felt ridiculous, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was coming. My palms were slick with sweat.

I waited for the delivery guy to confirm the order as received, so my neighbor would get the notification and come out to pick it up. I was tense, every muscle tight, like I was waiting for a bomb to go off.

I watched the peephole, waiting for the telltale ding from her phone. My hand tightened on the knife, knuckles white. I felt like a guard dog, just waiting for someone to make a move.

Sure enough, three minutes later, I heard the door across from me open, and I charged out. My heart leapt into my throat. This was it. Time to settle things.

The hallway was silent except for the soft click of her door. I flung mine open, ready to confront her once and for all. My adrenaline was spiking.

But the person picking up the food was that man with the dent in his forehead—my beautiful neighbor’s assistant. The sight of him made my skin crawl. He looked like trouble in sweatpants.

He looked up, unbothered, like he’d been expecting me. That dent in his forehead made him look like he’d been through a few bar fights. He held up a bag, heavy with fruit. His eyes flicked to my knife, but he didn’t even flinch.

He stared at my boning knife, his face calm, and handed me a bag of really nice-looking Rainier cherries, about four pounds. The cherries looked so perfect, it was almost comical—like he’d robbed a Whole Foods for them.

He didn’t flinch, just nodded politely, like it was perfectly normal to hand someone fruit at 2:30 in the morning while they held a knife. The cherries looked fresh, the kind you’d only find at Whole Foods, not the cheap stuff from the corner store. I almost laughed at the absurdity.

What, hit me with a stick and then offer me candy?

Was this supposed to be an apology? Some kind of peace offering? I stared at the cherries, then back at him, not buying it for a second. Like, what kind of logic was this?

Not buying it!

I didn’t take the cherries. I just raised the knife and demanded,

“I’ve already warned you—don’t put the wrong address again. Why is this still happening?”

My voice was sharp, slicing through the silence. I could feel my pulse in my ears, my hand shaking just a little. I wasn’t going to let him off easy.

“Waking people up in the middle of the night—are you trying to get us both killed or what?”

I glared at him, daring him to make an excuse. The hallway felt smaller, the air thick with tension. I could almost see the excuses forming in his head.

But my fierce threats only made the man nod and apologize:

“Ma’am, I’m really sorry. It’s just that our Madison is a streamer, and sometimes big fans send her DoorDash as a tip. You know how it is—hard to say no.

But she really doesn’t want to reveal her address, so she had to use your apartment number. Sorry for the trouble, really. Don’t worry, I’ve already talked to Madison—she’ll change.”

He spoke calmly, hands up in a placating gesture. He looked tired, like he’d had this conversation before. His Southern accent was soft, almost soothing, but I wasn’t buying it. The whole thing sounded rehearsed.

I sneered.

I crossed my arms, knife still in hand, and gave him my best “I’m not impressed” look. I’d heard enough excuses for one night. My patience was gone.

Before, this guy told me it was a mistake, that they’d forgotten to change the address. Now he says it’s because they don’t want to reveal their address to a big fan.

I replayed his words in my head. Last week, it was all, “Oops, must’ve clicked the wrong unit.” Now it’s some story about crazed fans. Which is it? Make up your mind, buddy.

There were a dozen ways to keep your address private. Use a P.O. box. Meet the delivery guy in the lobby. Hell, have it sent to a friend. But no, they kept using my place. It felt deliberate, like they wanted to make me part of their little drama. I was so done with it.

Now they’re deliberately exposing my address. If that big fan actually comes looking for Madison, I’ll be the one in trouble! My stomach churned. I pictured some obsessed dude showing up at my door with flowers—or worse. No thank you.

I’d seen enough Dateline episodes to know how that story ended. Woman gets mistaken for internet celebrity, disaster ensues. I was not about to be the next headline.

They’re doing this on purpose!

I stepped forward and gave a final warning: “If it happens again, I’m calling the cops.” My voice was ice cold. I wanted him to know I was serious. No more games.

The man’s always-smiling face twisted for a second, then quickly recovered. He apologized in a hurry:

“It won’t happen again!”

His mask slipped, just for a second—a flash of annoyance, maybe even anger. Then he was all smiles again, nodding, backing away. I watched him, not trusting that grin for a second.

I snatched the bag of cherries, turned around, went home, and double-locked the door. The click of the locks was oddly satisfying. I pressed my back against the door, heart still racing, and tried to slow my breathing.

They were good—sweet and crisp, the kind you only splurge on when you’re feeling fancy. But each bite made me more anxious. Was this a bribe? A warning? I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The aftertaste lingered, and not in a good way.

Other than that time I lost it, I’d only seen the beautiful neighbor once before—the day after I moved in. She had a cold, world-weary face. There was something about her—untouchable, like she’d built walls higher than mine.

She’d been coming up the stairs, oversized sunglasses hiding half her face, a Starbucks in one hand and her phone in the other. She barely glanced at me, but I could feel the chill from across the hallway. She had that look—untouchable, like nothing could faze her. I could see why guys would chase after her, but to me, she just seemed like trouble. The kind of trouble you see coming a mile away, but can’t quite avoid.

But for me, that was bad news. I was honestly worried her number one fan would show up at my door. The thought made my skin crawl. I didn’t want to get dragged into her drama.

I’d read enough horror stories online—streamers with stalkers, fans who crossed the line. If she was really hiding from someone, why drag me into it? I didn’t sign up for this.

It was the kind of thing you’d see on the local news—“Tragedy in Quiet Suburb: Woman Mistaken for Internet Celebrity.” I shivered, suddenly wishing I’d never moved here. I could already see the headlines.

I had to negotiate again! I sighed, spitting out a cherry pit, and squinted at the tiny receipt sticker on the bag. There it was—a phone number. It should be her contact.

I picked up the bag, squinting at the tiny receipt sticker. There it was, a phone number. My hands shook as I typed it into my contacts. I hesitated, nerves jangling, but pressed on.

Her profile picture was all gloss—perfect makeup, pouty lips, cat ears perched on her head. The kind of photo that got a thousand likes in an hour. I hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen, then hit “send friend request.” My stomach did a nervous flip.

My message was short, to the point. I didn’t want to sound crazy, but I needed her to know I meant business. My finger hovered over send for a second before I finally tapped it.

I waited, phone in hand, watching the little spinning circle. When nothing happened, I opened Instagram and searched for her handle. Her account was public, of course—hundreds of posts, thousands of followers. I scrolled, feeling like a stalker and hating every second of it.

The feed was all selfies and dance videos—Maddie in cat ears, Maddie in fishnets, Maddie with a bored expression that somehow made her even more alluring. I scrolled, feeling like a voyeur. How did people live like this?

The videos were hypnotic, the music catchy. She moved like she was made for the camera, every gesture calculated to draw you in. The comments were a mix of heart emojis and desperate pleas for attention. I couldn’t look away, even though I wanted to.

It was almost impressive, in a way. She knew exactly what she was doing. I wondered if any of her fans had ever seen the real her—the one who hid behind a locked door at night. I doubted it.

Some “streamer,” all right!

Just as I was about to scroll down, I got a notification that my friend request was accepted. The little buzz startled me. I switched back to the chat, heart pounding.

Switching back to chat, I quickly typed:

[Hello, I’m your next-door neighbor, Autumn Reed.]

[I’ve already talked to your assistant several times about the late-night takeout, but nothing’s changed.]

[This time I found your contact to let you know: if it happens again, I’m calling the cops.]

I hit send, then stared at the screen, waiting for the little “seen” checkmark. My fingers drummed against the countertop, nerves jangling. Why did this feel like a hostage negotiation?

At the top of the chat, it kept showing “typing...” The little bubble popped up, disappeared, popped up again—like she couldn’t decide what to say. I watched, feeling like I was waiting for a verdict.

After a few minutes, I finally got a reply:

[Sorry for the trouble, really sorry.]

[Green bubble: $150 transferred.]

I blinked, staring at the screen. One hundred and fifty bucks, just like that. I almost laughed. Was this hush money? Did she think I could be bought off that easily? The nerve.

If I hadn’t seen her Instagram, I’d have thought she was just some shy girl next door. But now, the whole thing felt like an act. You’d never guess this person played such risqué games. The contrast was almost funny.

She’d apologized, sure. But she hadn’t actually said she’d stop. That was what bothered me. It was like she was just buying time, hoping I’d go away. I stared at the screen, jaw tight.

The whole thing felt weird, but considering my neighbor’s already a weirdo, I didn’t dwell on it. I told myself to just let it go, at least for now. I was too tired to fight anymore.

I turned off my phone, telling myself if my warning didn’t work, I’d call the cops right away—I had to stand my ground with this crazy neighbor! I pulled the comforter over my head and tried to will myself to sleep.

The silence was almost eerie. I found myself listening for footsteps in the hallway, for the telltale knock that never came. For the first time in weeks, I actually slept through the night. But I couldn’t relax. Not really. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But something still made me uneasy. A week later, that mark showed up on the wall by my door again. My stomach dropped. Here we go again.