"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.

"Sam!"

I drove my shoulder into the heavy wood, forcing the door backward.

Ryan cursed, stumbling out of the way as I shoved past him into the living room. My sneakers skidded on the hardwood, narrowly missing a stack of flattened cardboard boxes. I ignored the mess. I ignored the tall man rubbing his shoulder behind me.

My eyes locked onto the far wall. The red string. The eight-by-ten glossy print.

"Get away from that," Ryan snapped. His heavy boots thudded against the floorboards as he crossed the room.

I reached for the photograph. The man on the dock. The wind blowing his dark hair. The exact slope of his cheekbone.

Before my fingers could brush the photo paper, a large, calloused hand clamped over my wrist.

"I said back off," Ryan warned. He pulled my arm down, stepping between me and the makeshift bulletin board. His broad chest completely blocked my view.

"Move," I demanded, pulling against his grip. "That is him. That is Sam."

"You are seeing things." Ryan released my wrist and crossed his arms. "That is a stranger. A guy standing on a pier in Nova Scotia."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I expect you to respect my apartment." He pointed a finger toward the open doorway. "That photo is B-roll reference for a documentary I shot two years ago. I do not know the guy's name. I never even spoke to him."

"You pinned a random man to your wall?"

"It is a location scout board, Della. We map out visual tones." His jaw tightened. "Now, please leave."

"No." I stepped closer, tilting my chin up to meet his dark, frustrated gaze. "You are lying to cover for him. Or you are him, playing some twisted game."

"I am not playing a game."

"Prove it." I grabbed his right forearm, flipping it palm up.

Ryan tried to yank back, but I dug my nails into his skin, holding fast. I dragged my thumb across the center of his wrist, searching for the jagged, raised skin where a rogue fishing hook had torn Sam's flesh four years ago.

Smooth skin met my touch. A faint network of blue veins. No scar.

I dropped his arm. My chest tightened.

"How do you take your coffee?" I asked, my voice dropping to a rapid, frantic whisper.

Ryan massaged his wrist where my nails had dug in. "What?"

"Answer the question. How do you take your coffee?"

"With almond milk and two packets of sugar," he said, his tone flat and unyielding.

"Sam drinks it black." I stared at his unmarked wrist. "He hates sugar. He says it ruins the roast."

"Then I am definitely not Sam."

I looked back up at his face. The identical jawline. The exact same cheekbones. But the eyes were wrong. Sam's eyes crinkled when he was annoyed. Ryan's eyes just looked tired.

A heavy, suffocating weight pressed down on my lungs. The frantic energy that carried me across the hallway evaporated, leaving me hollow. My knees trembled. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, fighting the sudden, sharp sting behind my eyes.

I failed. He was not Sam. The photo was a coincidence. The face was a cruel trick of genetics.

I waited for the lecture. I braced myself for the pitying sigh, the fake smile, the inevitable phone call to my mother to come collect her crazy daughter.

Instead, Ryan turned his back on me.

He walked into the small kitchenette. The faucet squeaked as he turned the handle. Water splashed into a glass.

I stood frozen by the documentary board, struggling to swallow the lump in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to let the tears fall.

Footsteps approached.

"Here."

I opened my eyes. Ryan stood two feet away, holding out a clear glass. Condensation beaded along the sides.

"I do not need pills," I whispered, backing away.

"It is just warm water." He pressed the glass into my hand, wrapping my numb fingers around the smooth surface. "Drink it. It helps with the shock."

I stared down at the water. No forced smiles. No frantic dialing of a hired boyfriend. No shouting about ghosts and delusions.

Just a glass of water.

"You are not calling my mother?" I asked, my voice cracking on the final syllable.

"You are an adult," Ryan said. He leaned against the kitchen counter, giving me plenty of space. "If you want to stand in my living room and cry, that is your business. Just do not break any more of my mugs."

A small, broken exhale escaped my lips. The heat from the glass seeped into my icy palms. I took a slow sip. The warm liquid coated my dry throat, easing the tight knot in my chest.

He watched me drink, his dark eyes entirely neutral. He did not judge me. He just waited.

"I am sorry," I said, staring at the floorboards. "I should not have barged in here."

"No, you should not have."

"My mother hired a man to pretend to be my boyfriend today." I tightened my grip on the glass. "She wants me to forget. But I cannot. Sam is out there."

Ryan did not offer a comforting lie. He simply nodded once, acknowledging the statement without endorsing it.

I set the empty glass on his folding table. The laptop screen beside it was dark, reflecting my pale, exhausted face.

"I will leave you to your unpacking," I told him, turning toward the door.

My hand found the brass knob. The cool metal felt grounding after the chaos of the afternoon. I pulled the door open, ready to face the empty hallway and the closed door of my own apartment.

"Della."

I paused, looking over my shoulder.

Ryan stood by the makeshift bulletin board, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark jeans. He stared at the photograph of the man on the dock.

"That Sam you mentioned earlier," Ryan asked, his rough baritone slicing through the quiet room. "Is his last name Beckett?"