Chapter 29: The Party
Annika's apartment was everything mine wasn't—bright, spacious, filled with the accumulated evidence of a life actually lived.
Books on shelves instead of stacked on the floor. Framed photos on walls instead of bare plaster. Furniture that matched, plants that thrived, the kind of careful curation that said someone had time and energy for beauty.
I arrived at eight-fifteen, deliberately late enough to avoid the awkward early-arrival conversation but not so late as to seem rude. Beck met me at the door with a glass of wine already in hand.
"You came!" She hugged me with genuine warmth. "Come in, let me introduce you to everyone."
The apartment held maybe fifteen people, clustered in the kind of loose groups that formed at parties. I recognized a few faces from workshop—Lisa waved from across the room—but most were strangers.
Beck guided me through the social maze, making introductions.
"This is Annika—it's her place. And Lynn, you've met at the bar. This is Chana, she works in publishing. And over there..." She hesitated slightly. "That's Peach."
Peach Salinger stood near the balcony doors, wine glass held like a weapon, watching Beck introduce me with the careful attention of someone cataloging potential threats.
"Nice to meet you," I said, extending my hand.
Peach's grip was firm, her smile calculated. "Beck's mentioned you. The workshop friend."
"That's me."
"She says you're a good listener." The words were neutral, but her eyes weren't. She was assessing me, trying to determine if I was another Joe—another threat wrapped in charm.
"I try to be," I said. "Writers are supposed to observe, right?"
"Right." She held my gaze a moment longer, then turned back to Beck. "I'm going to get some air. Nice meeting you, Fin."
She slipped through the balcony doors before either of us could respond.
The party flowed around me as parties do.
I circulated, making conversation, projecting harmlessness with every word and gesture. The Social Invisibility worked well in groups—I could participate without becoming memorable, present without dominating, friendly without inviting close attention.
But I was watching everything.
Beck and Peach barely spoke. When they did, the tension was visible—clipped sentences, careful eye contact, the exhausting diplomacy of a friendship under strain. The rest of the group felt it too, conversations shifting whenever the two of them ended up in proximity.
"They've been like this for weeks," Lynn said to me at one point, voice low. "Ever since the Joe stuff."
"What Joe stuff?"
"Peach thinks Beck's boyfriend is shady. Did some kind of background check or something. Beck's furious about the invasion of privacy." Lynn shrugged. "I don't know who's right, honestly. Joe seems fine to me, but Peach has good instincts usually."
"Sounds complicated."
"Everything with Peach is complicated. She's very..." Lynn searched for the word. "Intense. About Beck especially."
I filed the observation. Intense. That was one way to describe obsessive attachment.
The appetizers were beautiful and useless.
Tiny portions of expensive things arranged to look artistic—tuna tartare on crackers, goat cheese on fig slices, miniature crostini with toppings I couldn't identify. I ate six of them and was still hungry.
Rich people food was designed to impress, not satisfy. I found myself missing the simple utility of pizza, of takeout eaten standing up, of meals that existed to provide calories rather than conversation topics.
Focus.
I grabbed another crostini and drifted toward the balcony.
Peach stood at the railing, staring at the city lights with the intensity of someone trying to see through walls. She didn't acknowledge my approach, but she didn't move away either.
"Mind if I join you?"
"Free country." Her voice was flat. "Or so they tell me."
I leaned against the railing, leaving space between us. "Beck seems worried about you."
Peach laughed bitterly. "Beck is worried I'm ruining her perfect romance. She doesn't realize I'm trying to save her from it."
"Save her from what?"
The question hung between us. Peach turned, studying me with that same assessing gaze from earlier.
"You don't know anything about Joe, do you?"
"I know what Beck's told me. They seem happy."
"They seem happy." She repeated the words like they tasted sour. "Everyone seems happy. That's how predators work—they seem happy, seem normal, seem perfect. Until they're not."
"You think Joe's a predator?"
"I think Joe is hiding something. I think his history has holes you could drive a truck through. I think Beck deserves to know who she's actually dating, not who he's pretending to be."
The venom in her voice was real. Whatever Peach was—obsessive, possessive, complicated—she genuinely believed she was protecting Beck. The motivation didn't excuse the behavior, but it explained it.
"Did you tell Beck what you found?"
"I tried. She didn't want to hear it." Peach's jaw tightened. "She thinks I'm jealous. She thinks I can't handle her being happy with someone else. She doesn't understand that I'd be thrilled if she were happy with someone safe."
"Some people don't want to see what's in front of them," I said carefully. "Until they're ready."
"By then it might be too late."
We stood in silence for a moment. The city hummed below us, indifferent to the drama playing out on this balcony.
"I believe in following instincts," I said finally. "If yours are telling you something's wrong, you're probably right."
Peach looked at me differently then. Not with suspicion, but with something like recognition.
"You're the first person who hasn't told me I'm being paranoid."
"Maybe everyone else is being naive."
She almost smiled. "Maybe they are."
She pulled out her phone, typed something, held it toward me. "Put your number in. In case you ever want to talk about instincts."
I entered my number, handed the phone back. First direct contact with Peach established.
Another piece on the board.
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