The morning sun assaulted the penthouse. I stood at the island, cradling cold coffee and watching the elevator doors. Noah remained in his tech-induced coma that usually lasted until noon, leaving the apartment in silence.
At precisely ten o'clock, the elevator chimed.
Mrs. Higgins stepped out in her Sunday best, looking more ready for a funeral than a handover. Behind her stood a younger woman in a coat too heavy for the climate.
"Miss Georgia," Mrs. Higgins announced. "This is Lizzy. The young woman I told you about."
I set my mug down, donning my poised G. L. Sterling mask. "Welcome, Lizzy. Thanks for coming on such short notice."
Lizzy shed her coat to reveal a modest, high-collared sweater. She was understatedly pretty, with a sensible brown bun and eyes that swept over the multi-million-dollar view in a single glance.
"It's an honor, Miss Sterling," Lizzy said. "A real honor. I've read everything you've ever published. The Silent Quad is practically my bible."
"You're very kind," I replied. The Silent Quad was my most visceral work, a fictionalized descent into the isolation of university life.
"I'll leave you two to the tour," Mrs. Higgins interrupted. "I've put the inventory lists in the pantry. Lizzy knows the codes. Goodbye, Miss Georgia."
With a final, meaningful squeeze of my hand, the old housekeeper disappeared into the elevator. The doors slid shut, leaving me alone with the stranger who claimed to be my biggest fan.
"It's a magnificent house," Lizzy remarked, her voice trailing as she walked toward the floor-to-ceiling glass. She ignored the skyline, watching our reflections instead. "So transparent. Nowhere to hide, is there?"
Unease starred. "That was the architect's intent. We like the openness. Now, if you'll follow me, the kitchen is fully integrated. The espresso machine is a bit temperamental, and Noah, my fiancé, is very particular about his pods."
As I moved through the tour, explaining the intricacies of the smart-home system and the specific care required for the Brazilian quartz countertops, I found myself repeatedly glancing at Lizzy's profile.
There was something familiar about the way she tilted her head. Something in the set of her jaw.
"Have we met before, Lizzy?" I asked, stopping mid-sentence near the library. "Your face… it feels very familiar. Were you at the signing yesterday?"
Lizzy smiled demurely. "No, Miss Sterling. I missed the signing. I just have a common face, people are always mistaking me for a friend."
"Perhaps," I murmured.
We moved into the library. Lizzy's eyes lingered on a shelf of academic journals.
"You studied at Bradford, right?" Lizzy asked casually, her fingers brushing the spine of a sociology text. "Back when you were just Georgia Lane?"
I froze. My maiden name was public knowledge, but hearing it spoken in that way felt like a physical blow. "I did. A long time ago. How did you know that?"
"It was in the author's note of your first collection," Lizzy said quickly. Too quickly. "I remember thinking how brave you were, coming from a small town like that to the big city."
I forced a breath. "It was another life."
"I don't remember much of my time there. I was very focused on my studies."
Lizzy nodded, eyes sharp on the artifacts. "Sorry to pry. You're a legend, the girl who got out."
"I worked hard, Lizzy. That's all."
"Yes, you did," Lizzy said. She stepped closer, and for a second, the common-face mask slipped.
I saw it then. A flash of memory, a crowded hallway in the Bradford humanities building. A younger girl, mousy and overlooked, standing in the shadows while Anthony and I argued near the lockers. A girl named Josette.
"Josette?" I whispered, the name tasting like copper and old fear.
She didn't flinch or falter. "I'm Lizzy Hilton, Miss Sterling. You're mistaken. Like I said, my face is common."
I searched for the mole or the chin scar, any proof she was the girl I knew. She stood still, masked in professional concern.
"Are you alright, Miss Sterling? You look a bit pale."
"I'm fine," I snapped, my voice trembling. "I just… I haven't slept well."
"I can imagine. Keeping up a house like this, a career like yours… it must be exhausting to maintain the image." Lizzy reached out as if to steady me, but I recoiled.
"That's enough," I said, my veneer cracking. "Codes in the pantry. Eight tomorrow."
"Of course," Lizzy dipped her head. She slung her coat with a grace too practiced for a housekeeper. "See you tomorrow."
At the elevator, Lizzy stopped to survey the glass-walled room.
"It really is a beautiful cage," she said softly.
The elevator doors opened, and she stepped inside. As the light faded, I caught one last glimpse of her eyes. They weren't the eyes of a fan.
They were the eyes of a bookkeeper, finally arriving to audit a long-overdue debt.