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And he also said that if you change your mind about moving he’s happy to keep the apartment for you.”
    “Oh.”
    I was hoping she would say more about the moving part, but she didn’t. I took another bite of spaghetti then asked, “Are you moving?”
    She hesitated. “When I first moved here, I wasn’t sure how long I’d be staying, so I only signed a six-month lease. I’ll give him a call on my lunch break tomorrow.” She went back to eating.
    “It’s kind of a weird coincidence,” I said, “but when I opened the door, he didn’t ask for you. He asked for Nicole.”
    Angel didn’t look up.
    “I just thought that was kind of strange,” I said, “after that woman came by the other day looking for—”
    She cut me off. “I don’t know any Nicole.” She took another bite of spaghetti.
    I looked at her for a moment then went back to my meal.
    When the silence became uncomfortable, she asked, “Did you walk today?”
    “No. I did aerobics off the television.”
    “Sweatin’ to the oldies?”
    “Something like that,” I said.
    “So, what movie are we on tonight?” she asked. I had become the expert on the list.
    “Sixty-nine.
Shane.”
    “Is that the one about the Harlem detective?”
    I looked at her a moment, then smiled wryly. “That’s
Shaft. Shane
is a Western with Jack Palance.”
    “Close,” she said.
    We both burst out laughing. Nothing more was said that night about Bill or Nicole.

CHAPTER

Thirteen
    People aren’t wired to be alone. Even in the stressful population of prison, solitary confinement is still considered a cruel punishment.
    Alan Christoffersen’s diary
    I was eating breakfast the next morning when it suddenly struck me what was wrong with Angel’s apartment. There were no photographs. Not one. No snapshots of a mother, father, friend or sibling. There was no image of another human in the entire apartment.
    In fact, there was no evidence that this woman had any connection with humanity at all. That was true of her speech as well. In all our conversations she had never once mentioned family or friends, not even in anger.
    No, there had been
one
picture. I don’t know how I remembered this, but when I had stopped to help her outside Davenport, I remembered seeing a picture of a young boy hanging from her rearview mirror next to a crucifix.
    What kind of person lives her life like Eleanor Rigby, then invites a complete stranger to live in her home for an indefinite period of time? Or, was that precisely why she had invited me—so she would have someone to be with? Maybe. People
need
people. So where were they in Angel’s world?
    My questions about Angel were stacking up. Her crying at night, our conversation about death and her hope for oblivion, the coincidence of two people asking for Nicole—and Angel’s peculiar reaction when I told her.
Who was Angel and why was I here?
    My intuition told me that whatever was bothering Angel had something to do with this Nicole woman, but I had no idea who she was. I didn’t even know her last name. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been paying attention when the woman who had come asking about Nicole had mentioned it. Why would I? At the time, the encounter meant no more to me than a wrong number.
    It occurred to me that perhaps others in the building might know something about her, so I decided to talk to them. I had my first chance that afternoon.

    I had increased my walking to twice a day. A little after 2 P.M . I was stretching in the foyer when I ran into one of Angel’s neighbors, the young woman I had passed coming out of the apartment on my first walk. She came slowly into the building with her head down. She jumped a little when she saw me. “You startled me.”
    “Sorry,” I said.
    “No, it’s just I hardly ever see anyone here.”
    “I know what you mean. It’s really quiet. Are all the apartments rented?”
    “You wouldn’t know it, but they are. Bill doesn’t rent to anyone noisier than he is. So we’re all