Epilogue
EMILY
Two weeks later
Sevin was right.
I think my neighbors wait for me to arrive to the building elevator from my apartment floor so they can stack like Legos™.
Like a game of Tetris™, I squeeze my briefcase and a cup of the world’s hottest coffee into my apartment building’s elevator right before the heavy, silver-plated doors close.
Briefcase strap over my shoulder, phone in hand, caramel macchiato in the other, I try to swipe away from the trusty MyNeighbor app on my screen, where I’ve spent the last ten minutes complaining about the faulty stairs, and five floors later, after people have already started to pile on, a voice behind me in the elevator hisses over my shoulder.
I nearly give myself third degree burns as I jump.
“Ems!”
I somehow manage to not roll my ey
