Chapter Three - Cautious Colby

THE NEXT MORNING, I convinced myself it was all a bad dream right up until I walked to the door of the shop and found half of the shelves tipped onto the floor. In a panic, I called the cops and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

"I'm sorry, Miss…um?" The cop who didn't bother to show up until two in the afternoon stares me down with a familiar look. He's about to ask where my parents are.

When it comes to being considered an adult I have three strikes against me. One, I barely reach five feet on a good day. Two, my round face, owl-like eyes, and tiny mouth give people the impression I'm some kind of haunted doll come to life. And three, my voice barely registers above the volume of flipping a book's pages.

"Reely. I'm Violette Reely, the owner of this store," I insist in my strongest voice. It sounds like a meek mouse scurrying under a door.

He eyes me up and down, then sighs. "Right. Well. Aside from the minor damage, we couldn't see any signs of a break-in. The locks were still in place, no broken windows. Did you see anyone last night before you left your establishment?"

Yes. There were four strangely attractive men who also forgot to put clothes on. I'm not crazy.

There were naked men in my secret basement.

Bowing my head, I whisper, "No."

"Well, keep an eye out, just in case." The officer looks like he's already mentally scrolling the Starbucks menu as he jots down a few things. Without anything else to add, he walks back to his car partially parked on the sidewalk.

"Oh." He pauses with a hand on the roof of the car. "We did find a few pieces of loose clothing on the floor next to some cheese."

Clothing?

"Good day," the officer says. He doesn't pull out but sits in his car. As the minutes stretch on, I grow uncomfortable and—having nowhere to go—head for the shop's front door. My fingers wrap around the handle and I grit my teeth.

So they found old clothing, that could be anything. Aprons or polo shirts for employees. Maybe my uncle kept his charity donations in the basement. Last night didn't happen. I'm so certain exhaustion and fear spooked me into imagining it that I wrench open the door and stride into the shop with my head high.

As I do, the cop pulls away, leaving me completely alone. All of the lights blaze from his search, even the ones under the counter. Whoever or whatever upturned the shelves didn't touch my uncle's counter. Though they did knock over the sign.

There were no naked men. I was tired from the flight and imagined things my mother put in my head. That's it.

Smiling so hard my cheeks hurt, I unlock my phone. They asked me to take pictures to document the damage. It doesn't take me long, the store small and the shelves not really destroyed, just tipped over. With each picture, my finger hovers, threatening to go back to the beginning. To that single image I have of a dark brick basement and four shock-white men reaching for me.

"You're not real either," I tell my phone and move to hit the delete key. Wait. In all the commotion, my uncle's sign got tipped over. He used to write on that every day. Sometimes he'd let me draw on it too.

Needing that piece of him to remain in this world, I tip the old whiteboard up.

The jolly handwriting advertising his last sale is gone. In its place are words etched like someone held the marker in his fist. "Twenty years Mateo!"

They didn't find anything. No one else is here.

I'm just crazy. It's not real.

My brain's broken. Everyone knows that.

They're not real.

Fumbling, I open Spotify and play anything to cover the silence in the shop and the pounding in my head.

Hours pass, most of my time spent struggling to lift a single shelf. They're heavier than they look, or I have the muscle density of a wet sponge. Both seem possible. I don't notice that it's nearing nightfall and dinner until my stomach rumbles.

"What do you want?" I ask it.

"Love what you've done with the place."

I leap in shock, accidentally flinging a mess of garbage into the air like confetti. As the old wrappers tumble around me like trash snow, I catch the realtor who's helping me sell this place. Uncle Mateo's lawyers told me about him. He seems helpful, and it's not like I know any others in this city.

Deploying his megawatt smile directly into my eyes, the realtor bends over and offers me a hand.

"Sorry about that. I didn't get any on your suit?" I ask, growing aware of how much old cheese was in the garbage I threw.

"Nah." He sweeps a hand down his blue pinstripe jacket, then cranes his head around. "How are things going?"

"Good, good," I lie unconvincingly. Anyone with a brainstem can tell this place is a disaster.

"Do you mind if I take a few measurements? For the listing, of course."

"Ah, no, Mr…" Oh god, why did I say that? I don't remember his name.

His smile doesn't even flicker. "Walker, but please call me Josh." He spins out a business card with a picture of him where his teeth are whiter than the background.

I take it and nod my thanks. With a whistle, Josh walks around the place. He inspects the windows and knocks on the walls. I read over his business card so it doesn't seem like I'm watching him.

Josh Walker. Senior commercial real estate agent. Hmm, he looks kinda young to be a senior.

"Good bones."

"What?" I gulp.

He smiles brighter. "The building. It's got good bones. Needs a coat of paint, all of this cleared out, then we can do a proper staging. I'm thinking you could get five maybe ten."

"Thousand?" I stutter, completely lost. That's not a lot but with the stipend my uncle left me for the store, it could be a new start.

Josh laughs. "Million."

My jaw drops. My knees weave and…is my heart exploding? Clasping a hand to my chest, I fight to breathe. When the lawyers kept telling me this was a generous gift, I thought they meant it was like getting a box of sausages for Christmas.

Five million dollars…

"Who knew some old cheese geezer owned one of the hottest properties in the Sirloin district."

Through the absolute panic that I might sneeze wrong and set five million dollars ablaze, I glare at Mr. Walker. "My uncle was—"

"Oh, a saint of a man. People loved him. He'd bring baskets of cheese to homebound grannies. Wonderful. The world is darker without him in it," he whips out his spiel so fast my head spins. Then Mr. Walker slams his heel to the ground. "Solid. Is there anything else you've found about the property?"

"Found?" I squeak. Like, say a mysterious basement that four men broke into? Four muscled men who don't seem to believe in the sanctity of pants?

"You know leaks, mold, wood rot. That sort of thing?"

"Ah." I glance at the secret ladder and shake my head. "Nothing like that."

"Wonderful. Well, I need to jet. But we should catch up over coffee."

"I don't like coffee," I say.

"Great, great." He unwinds a light scarf from out of his jacket and wraps it around his neck. "Call my secretary and we'll get it all sorted out. Oh, and I'll call someone to get you—"

Help?

"—a dumpster. So long." He gives one last cheery wave, then pushes on the door. Just before passing the last window, Mr. Walker leaps into the air and clicks his heels together.

I pinch the business card between my thumbs and fingers like I've found the golden ticket. Five million dollars. What could I do with that much money? Aside from anything I've ever wanted. I could travel Europe, visit all of those museums I only saw in bootleg documentaries. Take a biking tour of France and stuff myself on cheese and bread.

Oh my god, I could get my own apartment!

You'll burn it down.

The gremlin scratches across my cerebellum.

All that money, up in smoke. Turn the lock. Five times. Has to be five or else.

A sharp pain shoots up my arm. I pull my nails away to find a red sore welling up through my sickly pale skin. Rocking back and forth on my knees, I bite my lip. I can ignore this. I don't need to lock the door.

Everything's fine.

It's not like a knife-wielding maniac is going to run in here and steal my spleen.

She'll die and it'll be all your fault.

Yelping, I dive for the lock like my life depends on it. Scraping the metal with the key, I need a few goes before I line the key up, then I lock it tight. The itch scratches harder and I turn it again, and again. Always five. Sometimes, it has to be in sets of five until I get it right. It's the only way to stop the gremlin…for a few hours, anyway until it finds a new ritual to torture me with.

I take a deep breath, the voice receding. Down the street, the lights begin to flicker to life as the sun dips below the tall buildings. Five million. That doesn't seem possible. How long can I live on that much money?

"Twenty goddamn years!" a voice rages out of nowhere.

It's not real. I made them up. There's no one in here with me.

"Calm down already. We don't know—"

For not being real, these voices are very loud and angry.

Clutching tight to my phone, I reach to dial nine-one-one. Slowly, I turn in place. Roq stands before the counter fuming while Cam clutches his arm. Both are staring at the ground. I follow their gaze and my brain shatters.

A robust log of cheddar cheese starts to rock back and forth on its own. No one's near it. I can't feel a breeze pushing it, or an earthquake shaking the whole store. Just as the cheese topples onto its side, a naked man pops into existence. Thick veins pulse through the flexing muscles and tanned skin. I force my gaze up his meaty thighs, thin hips, solid stomach, and wide shoulders. Just as I'm about to reach his face, my eyes pull me right back to his cock swaying in the breeze. The free-hanging salami starts to twitch and rise, the dark vein directing me back up.

Cheddy runs a hand back through his hair, then he raises it to me. "Hi, Vi!"

Oh, god.

My knees give out and I hit the ground.