Chapter Eight
Roommates, Rodents, & Resolutions
Morning arrived without mercy.
Somewhere beyond the thick haze of sleep, a sound tugged faintly at Isla’s awareness—insistent, distant, like something calling from underwater. Her mind brushed against it, acknowledged it, and promptly refused to engage. Her body followed suit.
She burrowed deeper beneath the comforter, cocooning herself in warmth and denial.
The night before had stretched far longer than intended. After completing edits on one manuscript, she had promised herself she would only skim the next submission waiting patiently in her inbox.
Just a few minutes.
Those few minutes dissolved into hours.
Hours had led to a fresh pot of coffee at one in the morning.
She had been completely absorbed.
Notification silenced. Phone turned face down. The world beyond her screen had ceased to exist as she immersed herself in someone else’s story.
“Stay present,” she had whispered at some point, fingers flying across the keyboard.
Stay present.
Work on the life you want while appreciating the life you’re building.
It had become her mantra over the past year and a half while starting her freelance business.
Freelance editing was no longer a side project squeezed into spare hours. It was becoming something real—something sustainable. Each manuscript she touched, each author who entrusted her with their work, each invoice she sent reinforced the quiet certainty that she had made the right choice.
It hasn’t been easy.
There has been nights filled with doubt, when she questioned everything — when she wondered if walking away from stability in pursuit of something she loved had been reckless.
But then came the contracts.
The referrals.
The emails from authors thanking her for helping shape their stories into something stronger.
Those moments reminded her she wasn’t merely correctly grammar or smoothing sentences.
She was helping bring dreams to life.
Including her own.
Another sound drifted faintly through the apartment.
Isla cracked one eye open.
Silence greeted her.
See? A dream.
Definitely a dream.
Keeping her other eye stubbornly shut, she reached blindly toward the nightstand and fumbled for her phone. The screen lit up, casting a pale glow across her face.
10:07 a.m.
She let out a quiet, humorless breath.
Four hours of sleep.
Productive. Healthy. Entirely sustainable.
Nothing embodied the image of a thiving adult quite like surviving on caffeine and sheer determination.
Arie had already left for work hours ago. There were no alarms waiting to drag her from bed, no meetings demanding her attention.
No reason to move.
She rolled onto her side and pulled the comforter higher over her shoulder.
Probably mice.
The thought surfaced with surprising clarity.
Of course. As if New York rent wasn’t already offensive enough, she now had to share her overpriced apartment with rodents.
Ignoring the rodent, she made a mental note she would text Arie later and let her know they have a problem on their hands.
Satisfied with this plan, Isla buried her face back into the pillow.
Clang.
Her eyes snapped open.
“…Okay.”
She stared up at the ceiling, frowning.
“Mice don’t clang.”
At least, she didn’t think they did.
The idea of evolving, metal-wielding rodents was unsettling enough to push her further awake.
Slowly, she pushed herself upright, every muscle protesting after hours spend hunched over her laptop. The apartment had fallen silent again, as though nothing had disturbed her at all.
Maybe she had imagined it.
Sleep deprivation had a way of distorting reality. Once, she had been convinced she’d responded to a date about rescheduling — she did not, it was all a dream.
Needless to say, said date ghosted her.
Another sound broke the stillness.
A soft scrape.
Then something heavier.
Footsteps.
Isla froze.
No.
Not imagined.
Footsteps.
Her hand shot toward her phone so quickly she nearly dropped it. With trembling fingers, she opened Arie’s contact and tapped on her location.
A familiar blue circle glowed over Arie’s office downtown.
A slow, sinking realization settled in her chest.
Arie wasn’t home.
Which meant —
Who was?
The blackout curtains cast her bedroom in dim, artificial night despite the late morning sun outside. Every sound seemed amplified now — the low hum of the refrigerator, the faint click of the air conditioner turning on.
Another shuffle.
Closer.
A prickling sensation crept up her spine.
Carefully she climbed onto her mattress, instinctively seeking higher ground.
It wasn’t logical.
But logic felt irrelevant if someone —something—was inside her apartment.
Another thought intruded.
Maybe it wasn’t a person.
Maybe it really was mice.
Plural.
A whole family. A very large family.
She hesitated.
She wasn’t entirely sure which possibility was worse.
Actually—
No.
Definitely the intruder.
At least a person wouldn’t chew through her pantry.
She blinked.
Had she really just ranked home invasion above rodents?
Sleep deprivation was clearly affecting her judgment.
Moving as quietly as possible, Isla slipped back onto the floor. She crouched beside her bedroom door and pressed her ear against the wood.
Nothing.
She waited.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Still nothing.
See? Overreacting.
Again.
She had inherited that particular tendency from her mother. Every headache had been a brain tumor. Every cough, pneumonia. Every unexplained noise—
Apparently a serial killer.
She exhaled slowly.
You’re being ridiculous.
Her hand closed around the doorknob.
Then—
Footsteps.
Right outside her room.
Her entire body went rigid.
Someone was there.
She held her breath until her chest ached, afraid even the smallest sound might give her away.
The footsteps stopped.
Silence followed.
Complete. Unbroken. Perhaps whoever it was had left.
Perhaps they had realized no one was home.
Perhaps—
The door exploded inward with a deafening crash.
The edge struck Isla square in the forehead before she could react. Pain flared sharp and immediate, stealing the breath from her lungs.
Then everything went dark.
