48. Nat

My apartment looks exactly the same as it did a week ago. The same but different. My front door locks have been replaced. The standard - shitty - locks each apartment in this block has have been replaced with more secure ones, and a state-of-the-art alarm system installed.

I have no idea how Max managed to persuade the landlord to accept such an upgrade, but I've not had any letters telling me it's a violation of my lease.

There are discreet cameras in every room apart from the bathroom. Red lights wink at me as I move around, picking up things and replacing them.

I can't settle. This place has been my safe space for nearly four years, but now it no longer feels like home. The truth is, even with an alarm system in place, I don't feel safe here.

Every time I walk into my bedroom, I see red all over the wall. Max never did tell me whether it was paint or something else.

I know he got the place cleaned up. He even paid for a new mattress, one that's infinitely better than the original. When I tried to offer him money from my savings because I'm not dumb, the cost of all this has to be sky-high, he just shook his head and said it was his job to take care of me.

Still not sure what he meant by that. We barely know each other yet he's treating me like we're in a long-term relationship. I really don't know what to make of that. I feel like I've missed an important memo somewhere along the line.

Not that I hate the possessive way he behaves.

Far from it.

It feels good to have a man willing to step up for me.

Rick couldn't even commit to picking up a bottle of wine on his way home if he was spending the night at my place. Rather than taking care of me, it was more me taking care of him.

Making sure he had clean clothes.

Ordering his groceries.

Speaking of groceries…

I told Max this morning I was moving back into my apartment - he wasn't happy about it but I pointed out he'd installed a new security system so he couldn't complain about it being unsafe. In the end, he huffed a bit and said fine, he'd make sure it was ready for me.

Which in his world means paying someone to come over and fill my cupboards and refrigerator with fresh food. There's salad, chicken breasts, steaks, yogurt, bread, milk… and the list goes on.

Despite my anxiety about being here, I can't help but smile at the way he goes out of his way to look after me. I get the impression he's like this with everyone he cares about.

Not that I've met his family or anything. We're definitely not there yet. God, he has zero chance of meeting my parents anytime. I'm lucky if I see them once a year; they're way too busy traveling and living their best lives.

Wandering back into the living room after taking a shower, I wonder if he's close to his family. Closer than I am to mine, I mean.

My parents and I get along fine, but I was a surprise baby when Mom was in her mid-40s. She assumed she was menopausal only to find out she was six months pregnant.

To say it was a shock is an understatement, and I don't think they've ever forgiven me for ruining their carefully laid plans. The minute I moved out to go to college, the pair of them retired. They rented out our home and then left to explore all the places on their bucket list.

I know Max has a sister - he's mentioned her once - but he hasn't ever talked about parents. Maybe they are dead? I guess they could be. Or estranged.

The remote for the TV is lying on the coffee table, so I pick it up to catch the evening news. My apartment is too quiet. I can't even hear the muted sounds of my neighbor watching her quiz shows.

The TV comes to life and I flick the channel over to my favorite news channel.

"And in breaking news this evening, the body discovered in City Park two hours ago has been identified as Mayor Ivan Kolanski's long-time personal assistant, Miriam Romanova. Miss Romanova had worked for the mayor for more than fifteen years and he is reportedly devastated by the news of her death…"

An image flashes up on the screen, showing the mayor with his arm around a youngish woman, both of them smiling. My heart stops and I gasp. I recognize the woman. She looked older, grayer when we met, but Margana is Miriam.

Oh my god. Margana… Miriam… is dead!

The remote falls from my hand as the anchorwoman drones on.

"Early reports indicate no foul play and a source suggests Miss Romanova had been struggling with mental health issues for a while now." The newsroom cuts away to a pre-recorded clip from the mayor.

"Miss Romanova was a loyal and hard-working assistant for many years, and we worked closely on a number of important projects, including my scheme to set up a shelter to help abused and homeless women and children." The mayor pauses for dramatic effect and wipes a tear away before continuing. "Miss Romanova… Miriam… was not just my assistant, she was a friend, and for the sake of her family, we would appreciate it if the press could respect theirs and my privacy, and allow us all time to grieve. Thank you."

There are voices in the background but the video goes back to the newsroom, where the anchorwoman sits behind her desk, stoically shuffling her notes.

"In other news this evening, there has been a flurry of deaths experts are linking to a dangerous new synthetic cannabinoid in circulation…"