“Hi,” I say. “I live next door. We just moved in a short while ago.”
“I know,” she says, a little flatly.
“You do?”
I’m unprepared for this conversation. She must see the surprise on my face because she gives an awkward chuckle.
“So sorry. We were alerted that another family was moving in,” she says cryptically. Alerted, huh. “And that you were pre-vetted. It was one of our conditions.”
“I just thought I’d introduce myself,” I say. “Maybe they don’t do that around here—”
“Oh, on the contrary. I’m Dorothea.”
“And I’m—”
“Cecelia Holmes,” she says, nodding. “I know. Why don’t you come in?”
Minutes later, we’re sitting in Dorothea’s living room, drinking the wine out of those giant glasses. Observing her house, I can only marvel at SmartBlock’s dedication. It has nothing in common with our own. The style is completely different, all its own. While ours favors clean, contemporary lines and a cool palette of colors, this one perfectly reproduces the look of a distinguished century-old Victorian. It reminds me a little of our old house, before we butchered it, and our life with it. Reminds me enough to give me a pang. There are even stained-glass inserts in the windows. The light is warm. There’s wainscoting and art nouveau moldings on the walls and ceiling and an antique-looking chandelier.
I wonder if each house is like that, a unique creation. And if yes, it means someone designed it, put it all together, chose the materials and the furniture, the shades of the paint on the walls. Who? Not us, the testers. We only filled out a most rudimentary questionnaire. Yet somehow, they seemed to know our favorite styles and colors, grays, blues, and olive greens, right down to the matte finish of the appliances.
Dorothea chatters away, seemingly oblivious of my sharp gaze on her. Or maybe she is aware. We talk about our husbands’ jobs, our own jobs—she’s not a housewife, it turns out, but a freelance journalist, currently between gigs. Yet something about her feels off to me. Just like this house posing as a turn-of-the-century mansion, a beautiful replica, down to the smallest details, but a replica nonetheless. Like she’s telling me a story. And when it’s my turn, she nods along with a little too much ease, like I’m telling her things she already knows. Even when I talk about my career designing ebooks, she expresses polite interest but hardly any surprise.
“Your daughter is adorable, by the way,” she says. This makes me refocus. When has she ever seen Taryn?
“I see you guys going out for a walk every once in a while,” she adds, apparently seeing my frown. “It’s such a perfect place for children. You really couldn’t do better.”
Finally, something we agree on. “All these safety features have been a godsend,” I say.
“And all the neighbors are pre-vetted,” she adds, and takes a generous sip of wine.
“By IntelTech.”
“And by the board. Wait.” Her eyes glint as she leans forward. “You didn’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Before they move in someone new, IntelTech submits the candidates to the board of residents. What? It’s not that strange. They do it in fancy condo buildings—”
“We’re not a condo building. Is that even legal?”
“Not only is it legal, it’s great. You’ll see the benefits soon enough. If you decide to stay. Then you’ll be on the board too, and you’ll always have a say about who moves in down the street from you and your young children. Better than nothing.”
So that’s how she knows my name. And my husband’s, and probably Taryn’s.
What else does she know?
But another thought occurs to me, eclipsing this troubling one. “Definitely,” I say. “Do you, by any chance, happen to know who lived in our house before us?”
I drop it into the conversation casually. Or I think I do. Because she stiffens, her spine straight and gaze alert. A moment later, an uncertain smile floats to her lips. “What do you mean?”
“Someone lived in our house before, right? Other testers. I guess they didn’t choose to stay. Do you know why?”
“Cecelia,” she says, “I don’t know anything about that.”
“But you’re on that…committee.”
“Board.”
“Right. Board. So didn’t you guys vet them too?”
“Cecelia, if I’m not mistaken, you’re the first ones to live in that house. If there was someone else, I had no idea.”
“There was someone. I think they mentioned it in passing. At IntelTech,” I lie. “Someone named Lydia?”
Dorothea blinks. It’s hard to make the act of blinking aggressive but somehow she pulls it off. “I don’t know who would tell you such a thing. Even if there had been, it would be confidential information.”
But the confidentiality is one-way, I think. I get up and make a quick exit—she’s not exactly begging me to stay.
Outside, the sunlight is blinding, and the perfection of the clean lines of sidewalks and lawns is a sharp contrast to the jumbled chaos of my thoughts. I now realize I must have had too much wine. And a second bottle is still in my bag, tugging on my shoulder.
Right. There’s still the house behind ours. Can I take on another Dorothea? Maybe it’s the chardonnay talking but I’m filled with determination. I’m going to march right up to that house and ask whoever it is why she was taking pictures of my daughter’s bedroom window. Yes. And I won’t leave until she answers. That’s what I’m going to do.
I storm down the sidewalk, around the bend, and up to the front door. The house looms, a giant rectangle of dark stone and darker one-way glass, practically sucking up the sunlight. This one isn’t shy about it: I can see the surveillance cameras, which means the house’s inhabitant wanted them to be seen. I march up the short ramp to the porch of flat, square granite, also shiny and black, and when I look up, there are the cameras, not one but two of them above the door. There’s also no doorbell I can see. I know she knows I’m here.
“Hello?” I call out. My voice is cowed and insignificant all of a sudden, pitiful even to myself. As if the house absorbs not just light but sound as well.
“Hello,” I repeat, trying to be more assertive. I look up, defiant, straight into the cameras. “I’m your neighbor. I have a gift.”
But I feel stupid, standing there with my bottle of wine. Suddenly, in the middle of the searing-hot day, I feel a chill. The house casts a deep, icy shadow.
“I’d like to speak with you,” I say, louder. “Please open the door.”
There’s no answer. Yet somehow, I know that I’m not talking to an empty house. I don’t know how to describe it. Just a feeling. Intuition.
“This is important,” I say. My fists are clenching. I feel intense anger at this house, at the cameras, at the indifferent stranger within. “Open the door.”
It occurs to me that I’m acting crazy. That for all I know, I’m scaring her to death, and she’s about to call the police. “I saw something from the window last night,” I add, trying to keep my tone normal, if not friendly. “I just wanted to speak with you. It’ll only take a minute. Please.”