This is Not a Sequel: Chapter 3
The hallway felt narrower than it should have. Light was low. The air had gone cold. The apartment had exhaled after Ryder left, and now it held its breath again, waiting for her to do something it could react to.
Another sound from the bedroom. A soft thump. The rasp of a tongue on fur.
She stopped at the threshold. Knelt. Peered into the dark space under the bed frame.
A shape shifted, catching what little light reached the floor. A shoulder moved as it licked at itself. The cat paused and looked at her. Copper eyes blinked once. Slow. Unimpressed.
Bored. Safe. The held breath came out of her.
“Ripp.”
She reached under and scooped him up.
“There you are,” she said.
Soft and warm. Dust and expensive salmon kibble, the kind Ryder used to complain about. A small protesting chirp but no struggle. She pressed her face into his fur a second too long. She needed proof.
Her finger found the thin blue strip of his collar. Searched for the silver bell.
She flicked it.
Dead. A dry little knock instead of a ring.
She pulled him closer to the light. The bell wasn’t broken. Packed tight with pale fur and a piece of dried grass. Enough to kill the sound.
She picked at it with her fingernail until the bell rang freely. The chime was a needle in the quiet room.
Ripp let out a sharp meow and twisted out of her arms. Landed on the carpet with a soft thud and trotted out, tail high, like the whole thing had been a personal insult.
She stayed kneeling. The dark under the bed held still.
She stood and backed out, closing the door.
Her laptop was open in the corner of the living room, the one spot that pretended to be an office. The Zoom window filled the screen. She slid her reading glasses on before the four faces resolved into their little boxes.
“Okay,” Reba said. Short gray hair. Born inside a quarterly review. “Updates, blockers. Ronda, you’re first. Give us the wins.”
Ronda leaned forward. Mouth moving. No sound.
“Mute, Ronda,” Reed said. Not looking at the lens. Three inches to the left, at a teleprompter or a ghost.
Ronda clicked. “Sorry. Uh, yeah. Analytics dashboard is live. Already seeing some interesting patterns in open rates. I’ll send the deck after this.”
“Great,” Reba said. Flat as a table. “Reed?”
Reed adjusted his camera. “Working the onboarding flow. Design sent mockups. I’m taking them to product this afternoon to see if they’ll actually fly.”
A dull weight pressed in behind her eyes. She shifted and pushed her glasses up.
“Lady,” Reba said. “You’re up.”
She glanced at her notes. Ink. Bullet points. Written earlier, or last night. The words looked familiar in the way a grocery list looks familiar. You trusted them because you had to.
“I’m coordinating the launch,” she said. Her voice sounded thin. “Emails are done. Scheduled for Friday.”
“Blockers?” Reba asked.
“No blockers.” A reflex. A small lie to end the day.
“Great. That’s everyone,” Reba said.
“Before we jump off,” Reed said, “do we have visibility into the next phase? Just want to make sure we’re all aligned.”
A stillness in Reba’s posture. Tiny. Like the call had brushed a boundary it didn’t have access to.
“Good question,” Reba said. “Let’s take that offline.”
The call ended. The boxes vanished.
Her reflection hovered in the dark glass of the empty screen.
She opened her email. The documentation was already there. Timestamped. Clean. A thread of decisions laid out in sequence, neat as if someone had been tracking her life more closely than she had.
She scrolled through once. No gaps. No questions.
Ripp hopped onto the arm of the couch. Slow blink. Normal. Annoyed.
She walked to the kitchen for water.
The trash can lid sat slightly crooked. Somewhere inside, Ryder’s cup in the bagged garbage where it had landed. The apartment felt calm the way a room feels calm after it wins.
On the counter sat the bottle of Malbec.
The one that was missing.
Empty.
She stopped so fast her shoulder bumped the doorway trim. Stared at the bottle until her eyes started to sting.
Behind her, Ripp’s bell gave a tiny, clear ring.
Somewhere down the hall, the floor answered with a creak.
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The feeling of detachment and dissociation is growing rapidly. I'm on Ripp's side.
Every one of your stories is full of great lines or phrases that make your writing brilliant. In this one, really loved: “She had short gray hair and looked like she’d been born inside a quarterly review.” I mean, I work with her. Everyone does. Brilliant description.