I peeled my thin glove off to call Jackie for the third time since my delayed flight landed in Toronto.

No answer.

 She’d insisted I fly for five hours to hear her big news. Now, there I was—no sister and freezing to death outside her condo at midnight.

If only waiting alone in the dark had topped my list of worries. When we’d spoken on the phone, Jackie said she had something to tell me. But then she gave one-word answers. She wanted off the phone. That meant she’d been hiding something. Something she wouldn’t tell me unless I arrived at her doorstep and pried it out of her perfect peach-coloured lips. 

Stepping back, I looked up toward her unit, which faced the street. No one was out on the balcony at this time of year. I couldn’t see anything, let alone the party she was hosting.

I sent another text message—Where the hell are you? It’s freezing out here.

I wasn’t dressed for this. It was my second winter visiting Toronto, but I’d forgotten how frigid it got. My phone said it was -14° C. Christ.

Maybe Jackie and her sometimes-sober public relations colleagues moved the party to a bar.

I could have checked a nearby drinking spot, the one we went to on my last visit. But I didn’t want to lug around a suitcase in the snow. And if I caught her drinking, I’d lose it. She knew not to drink with a head injury. That girl thought she was invincible.

The wind slapped snow from the street into my face before I could turn my back. I couldn’t stay outside much longer.

As I pulled my suitcase away from the building, a guy with a hockey bag held the door open for me. I rushed toward the elevators.

Once on the twelfth floor, I knocked on Jackie’s door.

It was unnaturally quiet in the hallway. No elevator dings, no footsteps. I couldn’t hear the sounds of a party inside. The only noise came from my knuckles rapping on her door.

No answer.

I tried again, this time with more force.

Nothing.

I pressed my ear against the door. Something? A chair being dragged, maybe? Was the sound coming from Jackie’s condo or a neighbouring unit?

I twisted the handle, and the door opened. Why isn’t it locked?

“Jackie, you here?” I took a few steps inside, then paused, waiting for the sound of her voice.

It was a spacious one-bedroom condo, but there were a few places to be unseen.

I looked down. No extra shoes were scattered by the door. I guessed they’d decided to go out after all.

The only light came from two white candles. One was burning in the kitchen, the other in the living room.

Empty wine bottles and red-stained glasses were scattered across the counters and coffee table. Definite proof of a party.

I circled the kitchen island, treading on the remnants of cheese and baguette on the hardwood floor. Taking the cheese platter from the counter, I held it up to my face and examined the surface. Blue cheese—her favourite. And mine.

Peering out the floor-to-ceiling window in the living room, I studied the balcony. A small table and two chairs were covered in snow.

As I placed the platter on the counter, the same noise replayed. I jerked my head up. It was coming from her bedroom. “H-hello?”

I made my way there, hesitating in the doorway.

Stop being such a baby. Go.

My feet remained planted on the floor. What’s inside? I don’t want to know.

With the curtains drawn, the bedroom was pitch-black. I fumbled my sweaty palm along the wall, searching for the light switch. Flick. Nothing. I’d forgotten. Jackie only used her bedside lamp.

I activated the flashlight app on my phone and shone the bright light into every corner of the room, including the crack between the door and wall, separated by the door’s hinges.

The bed was perfectly made and undisturbed. I shoved my phone against my thigh, hiding the light. There was only one other place to hide in this room—the closet. It was closed by double-doors that opened from two center knobs.

The closet doors were solid. If someone was in there, they couldn’t see me coming. If I approached carefully enough, they wouldn’t be able to hear me, either. 

Stop it, doesn’t matter. No one is in there. 

I inched forward.

That noise again.

It sounded like something light, maybe a shoe dropped on the closet floor. I spun around and sprinted to the kitchen. There was a block of knives on the counter. I pulled one out, my heart pounding.

I should call the police. And say what? The couch squeaked?

This is ridiculous. 

I stalked back into my sister’s bedroom, holding the blade at eye level. Tossing my phone on the bed, I yanked the curtains open, flooding the room with streetlights. Taking my courage into my free hand, I wrenched the closet doors open.

Dresses, skirts, and blouses hung from a rod—exactly what should be in a closet.

With a sigh of relief, I dropped the knife on the bed and took off my coat and scarf. Nothing out of the ordinary was there.

Stupid girl. I took a selfie showing mousy hair stuck to my forehead and a butcher’s knife across my lap. I sent it to Jackie. This is what happens when you don’t pick up your phone.

Still no new messages. I’d watch something on Netflix while waiting for her to come home.

I returned the knife to the kitchen and flopped on the L-shaped gray couch. And looked up. A light from the bathroom on the other side of the living room caught my eye.

How did I not see it earlier?

A dim light shone through the crack beneath the door. I tapped lightly. “Anyone in there?” I whispered.

No answer.