They told me Sam drowned three years ago.

I didn't believe them, so I kept setting two plates every night.

The morning I saw the new neighbor on the eleventh floor, I dropped my coffee and ran to him.

I threw my arms around his neck and whispered that I knew he'd come back for me.

He froze, this stranger with Sam's exact jaw, and gently pried my hands off his shirt.

My mother dragged me back inside and shut the door and pressed her palm over her mouth.

That night she made a phone call I wasn't supposed to hear.

"She thinks the neighbor is Sam," she said. "We have to hire someone before she hurts herself again."

So they paid a man named Jonah to walk into my apartment and pretend to love me.

I laughed in his face and told him he wasn't Sam either.

For weeks I chased the neighbor down hallways, into elevators, across the parking lot, calling him by a dead man's name.

He started leaving his door unlocked so I'd stop clawing at it.

Then Vivienne came to visit, the way she always did, smiling with her head tilted.

She sat on my bed and stroked my hair and told me she was so glad I was healing.

I remembered her perfume from the stairwell.

I remembered a hand flat against my back.

"You don't remember anything, do you, Dell?" she murmured.

"No," Marilyn's voice cut in from the doorway. "And you're going to keep it that way."

***

"Move your elbow, Mom. That is Sam's spot."

I slid the porcelain plate onto the oak table, aligning the edges perfectly with the woven placemat. I adjusted the silver fork, ensuring the tines pointed exactly toward the center of the dish.

Marilyn Whitmore froze, her fingers hovering over the porcelain sugar bowl. "Della, please do not start this today."

"Start what?" I pulled the silver pocket watch from my cardigan pocket. "He likes his toast lightly buttered. You always forget to leave the butter out to soften."

My thumb traced the engraved initials on the inner lid. D.W. & S.B.

Four years we spent together. Four years of shared coffee, tangled blankets, and quiet mornings before he took that overseas surveying contract. He pressed this heavy silver disk into my palm right at the terminal gate, the metal warm from his skin.

Wait for me.

"Della." My mother stepped closer, her slippers scuffing against the hardwood floor. She pushed a small plastic cup across the table. Two white pills rattled against the sides. "Sam isn't coming back."

I kept my eyes on the watch face. The metallic hands ticked in a steady, relentless rhythm. "He is just delayed. The maritime office said they lost contact. That means the comms went down in the storm."

"That phone call was three years ago." Marilyn's voice cracked, sharp and desperate. "Three years, Della. The Coast Guard called off the search after two weeks."

"They didn't find a raft. No raft means they made it to an island." I shoved the pill cup away. It tipped, spilling the medication across the table. "Do not touch his plate."

"You need to take your medication." Marilyn reached for the pills, her hands trembling as she gathered them. "Dr. Aris said you need consistency."

"I am not sick."

"You are setting a place for a ghost!" She slammed her hand flat against the table, making the silverware rattle.

"He is an excellent swimmer, Mom. You know he won state championships." I grabbed two ceramic mugs from the kitchen counter, pouring dark roast into both. The steam curled into the air, smelling bitter and strong. "I am going to get some air."

"Where are you taking those?" Marilyn blocked my path to the foyer, her eyes darting to the two steaming cups.

"Outside. Sam hates a stuffy apartment after a long flight. He always wants coffee first."

"Della, stop it."

I sidestepped her, pushing the heavy front door open with my shoulder. The dim corridor of the eleventh floor stretched out before me, lined with identical numbered doors.

The air out here felt crisp, smelling faintly of lemon floor wax. I took a step toward the balcony railing, balancing the hot mugs carefully so they would not spill.

A shadow shifted near the elevator bank.

A man stood there, wrestling a heavy cardboard box through the doorway of apartment 11B. His back faced me as he kicked the door wider with his boot.

"Do you need a hand with that?" I asked, raising my voice over the hum of the nearby vending machine.

He turned his head.

The overhead fluorescent light caught the hard angle of his jaw. The exact slope of his cheekbone. The slight shadow of stubble along his chin. The way his dark hair curled just behind his left ear.

My fingers went slack.

The mug slipped from my left hand. Ceramic shattered against the concrete floor, sending a splash of scalding brown liquid over my sneakers and up the hem of my jeans.

I ignored the burning heat on my ankles.

"Sam."

I closed the distance in three strides. The remaining mug sloshed in my right hand as I threw my free arm around his neck, burying my face into his shoulder. He smelled like fresh linen and packing tape, not sea salt and motor oil, but none of that mattered. He was solid. He was here.

"I knew you would come back." I laughed, the sound loud and sharp in the quiet hallway. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. "I told them. I told them you were just delayed by the storm."

The man stood rigid as a statue. The cardboard box in his hands hit the floor with a heavy thud, splitting open at the seam to reveal stacks of hardcover books.

"Excuse me?" His voice was a low, rough baritone.

It sounded deeper. Rougher. The cadence was entirely wrong.

He gripped my wrist. His fingers were ice-cold, prying my arm off his neck with firm, unyielding pressure.

I stumbled back, blinking up at him.

Dark eyes stared down at me. A stranger's eyes, filled with alarm and pity. Sam's eyes were hazel, always crinkling at the corners. This man's eyes were flat, dark pools.

"Lady, I think you have the wrong person." He took a half-step back, wiping his shoulder where my cheek had rested.

"No, Sam, it is me." I reached for his shirt collar, desperate to bridge the sudden gap between us. "Stop joking around. I kept your watch safe. Your plate is set on the table."

"Ma'am, please step back." He raised both hands, creating a physical barrier between us. His gaze darted down the hallway, looking for an escape or a witness.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" My voice pitched higher, bouncing off the concrete walls. "It is Della. Your Della."

"I do not know a Della."

"Della!"

Footsteps slapped frantically against the hallway tiles. Marilyn sprinted out of our apartment, her face pale and drawn, her slippers sliding on the slick floor.

She grabbed my waist, yanking me backward with surprising strength.

"Mom, take your hands off me!" I thrashed against her hold, nearly dropping the second mug. "He just got back! Let me talk to him!"

"I am so sorry," Marilyn gasped, keeping a tight, desperate grip on my sweater. "She is unwell. We are so sorry to bother you."

The man frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. The alarm in his eyes shifted entirely to pity. "Is she going to be okay? Do you need me to call someone?"

"Yes. Fine. Welcome to the building." Marilyn dragged me backward across the hallway, her heels digging into the floor for leverage.

"Sam, tell her to stop!" I yelled, reaching my hand out toward him. "Tell her you are home!"

He just watched me, his jaw tight, offering no help. He reached down and picked up his broken box of books, stepping into his apartment.

"Stop it, Della," she hissed, hauling me over the threshold of our apartment.

She slammed the door shut and twisted the deadbolt.

The heavy metal click echoed in the foyer, sounding like a prison cell locking into place.

Marilyn slumped against the wood, pressing one hand hard over her mouth. Her chest heaved with ragged, uneven breaths.

I stood in the center of the living room, staring at the closed door. The remaining mug in my hand trembled, coffee sloshing over the rim and dripping onto the hardwood floor.

"Why did you lock him out?" I asked, my voice dropping to an empty whisper.

Marilyn did not answer. She kept her hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes squeezed shut as if trying to block out the entire morning.

"He forgot his keys, Mom. Open the door."

She shook her head, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes and tracking down her wrinkled cheeks.

I turned away, setting the mug down next to the silver pocket watch on the dining table. My hands shook as I picked up a linen napkin to wipe the spilled coffee. The stain soaked into the fabric, turning it a muddy brown.

A faint murmuring sound caught my attention.

I glanced back at the foyer.

Marilyn had her cell phone pressed to her ear. Her hand shook as she cupped the receiver, turning her face toward the wall to muffle her words.

"She mistook the neighbor for Sam," Marilyn whispered into the phone, her voice tight with panic. "Yes, just now in the hallway. We need to hire someone before she causes another incident."

"We need to hire someone before she causes another incident."

My knuckles pressed flat against the chilled wood of the front door. I kept my ear angled toward the crack, listening to the frantic scrape of my mother's slippers as she paced the foyer.

"Money is not the issue," Marilyn whispered into her cell phone, her voice tight and frantic. "Just find a professional. Someone who knows how to handle delusions."

I stepped back. The floorboards groaned under my weight.

Marilyn went silent.

I turned and walked back to the dining table, staring at the empty porcelain plate waiting for Sam.

Three days after the hallway incident, my mother unlocked the apartment door and ushered a stranger inside.

"Della," Marilyn called out, her voice pitching up in forced, brittle cheer. "Come out here! Look who came to visit."

I stood up from the sofa and walked into the entryway.

A man stood on the welcome mat. He wore a sharp charcoal suit, a crisp white collar, and a maroon silk tie. His hair was styled back with expensive pomade.

"Who is this?" I asked.

"It is Jonah," Marilyn said. She grabbed his arm, pulling him further into the room. "Jonah Coleman. Your boyfriend."

Jonah offered a bright, perfectly measured smile. "Hi, Della. It has been a while. I missed you."

He took a step forward, raising his arms slightly as if expecting a hug.

I did not move. "My boyfriend."

"Yes, sweetheart," Marilyn insisted. She fluttered around him, taking his suit jacket. "He wanted to surprise you. He has been working so much lately."

"I brought lunch," Jonah said. He held up a white paper bag bearing the logo of a high-end Italian deli. "I got that roasted turkey sandwich you love."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "I do not eat turkey."

Jonah's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He shot a quick, panicked glance at Marilyn.

"She means she has not eaten turkey recently," Marilyn jumped in, her hands wringing together. "Her tastes change. You know how it is, Jonah."

"Right, of course." Jonah recovered quickly, plastering the grin back onto his face. He set the bag on the console table. "We can order something else. Whatever you want, Della."

I began to circle him.

My bare feet made no sound on the rug. I studied the sharp crease of his trousers. The polished leather of his oxfords. The complete absence of grease, sea salt, or dirt anywhere on his person.

"Where did we meet, Jonah?" I asked, stopping directly behind him.

Jonah shifted his weight. "We met at the coffee shop downtown. The one by the library."

"I do not drink coffee from shops. I make it at home."

"You spilled your tea, then," he corrected smoothly, turning to face me. "I gave you my napkins."

"Sam and I met at a marina," I said. "He dropped his wrench in the water. I fished it out with a boat hook."

"Della, please," Marilyn pleaded from the corner. "Jonah cares about you. He just wants to spend time with you."

I stepped in front of him again, closing the distance until we were inches apart. "Two years ago, a woman named Vivienne used to come over every Tuesday."

Jonah tracked my movement, his posture rigid. "Vivienne?"

"Yes. She brought casseroles. She smiled exactly like you are smiling right now." I tilted my head, examining the tight corners of his mouth. "Then came Marcus. Then Dr. Aris. They all had that same look."

"I do not know those people," Jonah said.

"I kept a visitor log, Mom," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on Jonah. "A whole notebook full of names. People who came to stare at the crazy woman waiting for a ghost."

"I am not here to stare at you," Jonah said. His baritone voice dropped into a soothing, practiced cadence. He reached a hand out, aiming for my shoulder. "I am here for you."

I slapped his hand away.

The smack echoed loudly in the small entryway.

Jonah flinched, pulling his arm back against his chest.

I reached out and grabbed the knot of his maroon silk tie.

"Hey!" Jonah protested. He grabbed my wrist, his fingers clamping down hard.

I yanked the tie forward, forcing him to stumble a half-step toward me.

"Sam never wears this kind of tie," I said, staring directly into his dark, alarmed eyes. "He hates silk. He says it feels like a noose."

"Della, let go of him!" Marilyn shouted, rushing forward.

I released the fabric and shoved his chest. Jonah stumbled backward, hitting the edge of the console table. The paper bag tipped over, spilling a wrapped sandwich onto the floor.

"You can stop pretending now," I told him, wiping my hands on my jeans. "The act is pathetic."

I turned my back on them and walked into the living room.

Silence hung heavy in the apartment.

Through the reflection in the television screen, I watched Jonah drop the professional facade. His shoulders slumped. He let out a long, ragged exhale and tugged aggressively at his collar, loosening the ruined knot. The polite boyfriend vanished, leaving behind a weary man who just wanted to clock out.

"I think I should go, Mrs. Whitmore," Jonah muttered. He bent down to retrieve his leather briefcase from the floor.

"No, wait, Jonah, just give her a minute," Marilyn whispered, grabbing his sleeve. "She is just adjusting."

"I will come back tomorrow. This is not working today."

He yanked his briefcase upward.

The brass latch snagged on the edge of the console table. The metal clasp snapped open with a sharp click.

A thick stack of papers slid out, scattering across the hardwood floor like fallen leaves.

"Damn it," Jonah hissed. He dropped to his knees, frantically sweeping the documents together.

I turned around and walked back toward the foyer.

A single sheet of thick parchment had glided across the floor, stopping right at the tip of my toes.

Jonah lunged for it, his fingers stretching out.

I stepped on the corner of the page, pinning it to the wood.

He froze, looking up at me. The panic in his eyes was entirely genuine now.

I bent down, brushing his hand out of the way, and picked up the document.

Bold black letters stretched across the top margin: Companionship Employment Agreement - Client: Marilyn Whitmore.

"Clause Seven," I read aloud, my voice echoing off the foyer walls.

Jonah stopped gathering his spilled papers. He stayed on his knees, staring at the floorboards.

"Della, give that to me," Marilyn demanded, stepping forward with an outstretched hand.

I held the thick parchment higher, keeping it just out of her reach. "The contractor must not disclose the employment relationship to the subject."

A sharp, barking laugh tore from my throat. It bounced around the entryway, loud and completely devoid of humor.

Marilyn flinched. "Stop laughing. It is not funny."

"It is hilarious, Mom. You hired a boyfriend."

During my junior year of college, Vivienne stole the debate club presidency. She circulated emails claiming I plagiarized my final thesis. I stood in the dean's office, clutching my original handwritten drafts, and bit the inside of my cheek until copper filled my mouth. I kept my silence. I endured the humiliation to keep the peace.

I was not keeping the peace today.

I marched past Marilyn and slapped the contract flat onto the oak dining table, right next to the empty porcelain plate.

"How much does a fake smile cost these days?" I asked, looking down at Jonah. "Do you charge by the hour, or is it a flat rate for the turkey sandwich?"

Jonah pushed himself up from the floor, brushing dust off his suit pants. He refused to meet my eyes. "Ms. Whitmore, I should leave. This violates the terms of the arrangement."

"Stay right there," Marilyn snapped at him. She turned her glare on me, her face pale and tight. "I did this for you, Della. You need someone to take care of you."

"I need you to stop treating me like a patient."

"You set a place for a dead man every morning!" She pointed a trembling finger at the table, her voice rising to a shrill pitch. "You chased a stranger down the hallway. You talk to empty chairs. You are sick!"

"I am waiting for my fiancé."

"Sam is at the bottom of the ocean!"

I grabbed the heavy silver pocket watch off the table. The metal felt cold against my palm. "He is delayed."

"Della, please listen to reason," Jonah started, taking a cautious step toward the dining room. He raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Your mother just wants you to move on. We can still sit down. We can just talk."

"Do not speak to me," I told him, gripping the watch tight. "You are an employee. You are dismissed."

"Jonah, do not leave," Marilyn pleaded, grabbing his suit sleeve. "I will double your rate for today. Just help me calm her down."

"He cannot calm me down, Mom. He does not even know how I take my tea." I turned my back on both of them and walked toward the front door.

"Where are you going?" Marilyn yelled, her slippers slapping against the floor as she chased me.

"To find someone who tells the truth."

I gripped the brass knob, twisted the deadbolt, and yanked the door open.

"Della, get back inside!" Marilyn grabbed my elbow, her fingernails digging into my skin.

I yanked my arm away. "Do not touch me."

"He is a professional! He can help you transition back to normal life."

"Normal life does not involve paying men to pretend to love me." I backed away from her, pointing at our open apartment door. "Go back inside and pay your actor. Leave me alone."

Marilyn stood in the corridor, her face crumbling. "You are destroying yourself."

"I am surviving. You are the one putting on a play."

I turned and marched down the eleventh-floor corridor. The air smelled of lemon wax and dust. I did not hesitate. I crossed the hallway and stopped in front of apartment 11B.

The man from three days ago lived here. He told me he did not know me. He pushed me away. He did not lie. He was the only real thing in this entire building.

I raised my fist and pounded on the heavy wood.

"Hey!" I shouted, hitting the door again. "Open up!"

Silence answered from the other side.

I knocked harder, my knuckles stinging from the impact. "I know you are in there. Open the door!"

The deadbolt clicked.

The door swung inward, revealing the tall, broad-shouldered man in a faded gray t-shirt and dark jeans. His dark eyes narrowed as he looked down at me.

"Are you going to throw coffee on me again?" he asked, his rough baritone voice scraping against the quiet.

"No." I held up my empty hands, keeping the silver pocket watch clutched tightly in my left fist. "I need to talk to you."

He leaned against the doorframe, blocking my view of his apartment. "We have nothing to talk about. I already told your mother I would not press charges."

"I do not care about charges. I care about your face."

He raised an eyebrow. "My face."

"You look exactly like him."

"I do not know who 'him' is, lady. My name is Ryan Vance. I just moved here."

"My name is Della." I stepped closer, forcing him to stand his ground. "And my family is paying actors to pretend to be my boyfriend. They think I am crazy. They think Sam is dead."

Ryan rubbed the back of his neck, his jaw tightening. "This sounds like a personal problem, Della. I am just trying to unpack my boxes."

"You did not lie to me in the hallway."

"I told you to back off."

"Exactly. You were honest." I pointed the pocket watch at his chest. "I need you to tell me the truth right now. Do you have a brother? A twin? A cousin who works on maritime surveying ships?"

"I am an only child." He crossed his arms over his broad chest. "And I work in logistics. No boats. No surveying."

I stared at the slope of his cheekbone. The hard angle of his jaw. It was a perfect match. The resemblance was too precise to be a coincidence.

"You are lying."

"I just met you three days ago," Ryan said, his tone dropping into a hard, flat line. "I have no reason to lie to you, and I have no reason to help you. Go back to your apartment."

"Sam disappeared three years ago. The Coast Guard called off the search, but they never found a body." I pressed forward, ignoring his warning. "You show up right next door, looking like his carbon copy. That is not random."

"It is a big city. People look alike."

"Not this much."

"Look, I am sorry about your fiancé," Ryan said, his voice devoid of actual sympathy. "But I am not him, and I do not know him. Have a good afternoon."

He reached for the edge of the door, ready to close it.

"Wait." I wedged my sneaker into the gap, stopping the wood from shutting.

Ryan sighed, a harsh sound of irritation. "Move your foot, Della."

"Let me look inside."

"Absolutely not."

"Just one look." I pushed against the door with my shoulder. "If you are telling the truth, you have nothing to hide."

"Are you out of your mind?" He shoved back, easily overpowering me.

The door swung wider for a fraction of a second as he shifted his weight.

My eyes darted past his shoulder, scanning the dim interior of his living room.

Cardboard boxes formed uneven towers against the sofa. A laptop sat open on a folding table.

And the far wall.

Dozens of glossy photographs hung pinned to the drywall, connected by thin strands of red string. They were aerial shots. Deep blue ocean water. Green islands. Jagged coastlines.

Right in the center of the chaotic web hung an eight-by-ten print.

It showed a man standing on a wooden dock, facing away from the camera. The wind whipped his dark hair. The angle caught the side of his face.

The exact slope of the cheekbone. The hard angle of the jaw.

It was Sam's profile.

And it was definitely not Ryan Vance.