Gilded Shadows

The first thing I notice about the girl crying in the stairwell is her shoes.

Not because they're ugly. Because they're expensive. The kind of expensive that doesn't announce itself, no logos, no flash, just the quiet confidence of leather that costs more than my monthly rent. They're also completely wrong for the weather. Suede. In November. In Seattle. The rain outside has been coming down sideways for three hours, and those shoes have never seen a single drop.

I'm on my way down from the fourth floor, arms full of Mrs. Chen's grocery bags because she tipped me twenty bucks to carry them up and I'm not proud. Twenty bucks is twenty bucks. The stairwell smells like wet wool and someone's leftover curry, and this girl is sitting on the landing between the second and third floors with her knees pulled up to her chest, and she's crying the way rich people cry. Quiet. Controlled. Like even her tears have been taught not to make a scene.

I should keep walking. That's the smart thing. I've got two more deliveries, and my shift at the bar starts in four hours, and I haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon. But I stop. Because I'm an idiot, mostly. Because she's blocking the stairs, maybe. Because the sound she's making is so small it's almost not there at all, and somehow that's worse than if she were wailing.

"Hey," I say.

She looks up. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her mascara hasn't run, which means it's waterproof, which means it cost more than my entire makeup collection, which is to say it cost more than zero dollars, which is what I spend on makeup. Her hair is the kind of blonde that happens in salons, not in nature. She's maybe my age. Twenty-four, twenty-five. Her coat is camel-colored and belted at the waist and probably has a designer name I can't pronounce stitched inside the collar.

"I'm fine," she says. Her voice is hoarse. "I'm sorry. I'll move."

She doesn't move.

"Okay," I say. "You're fine. You're also sitting on the stairs of a building that hasn't had its fire inspection updated since 2009, and I'm pretty sure the guy on the third floor is cooking meth. So if you're planning on having a full breakdown, this isn't the spot."

She blinks at me. For a second I think she's going to tell me to fuck off, which would be fair. Instead, she laughs. It's a wet, broken sound, more surprise than humor.

"Meth?" she says.

"I'm speculating. But he's got a lot of visitors at weird hours, and his apartment smells like cat piss and nail polish remover. So. You know. Draw your own conclusions."

She wipes her face with the back of her hand. The gesture is strangely childlike. It doesn't match the coat or the shoes or the hair.

"I don't know where I am," she says.

I shift Mrs. Chen's bags to my other hip. "You're in the Belltown Arms. Corner of Third and Bell. You're about four blocks from the Space Needle, if that helps. Though honestly, the Space Needle is overrated. It's just a big needle. You pay thirty bucks to look at a city that looks better from the ground anyway."

"I know where I am geographically," she says. "I mean I don't know where I am. In my life. I don't know how I got here."

"Here as in this stairwell, or here as in existential crisis?"

"Both."

I should leave. I really should. But there's something about the way she's looking at me, like I'm the first person who's spoken to her in weeks, like she's been drowning and I just happened to swim by. And I know that look. I've worn that look. Not in expensive shoes, but the feeling is the same.

"I'm Danny," I say.

She stares at me for a moment. "Danny," she repeats.

"Yeah. Short for Danielle, but only my mother calls me that, and she's dead, so."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. She was a bitch." I say it flat, no emotion, because it's true and because I've learned that if you say it flat, people don't ask follow-up questions. "What's your name?"

She hesitates. It's a long hesitation. The kind that makes me think she's about to lie.

"Margot," she says finally.

"Margot," I repeat. "Like the princess?"

"Like my grandmother."

"Okay, Margot-like-your-grandmother. You want to tell me why you're crying in my stairwell, or do you want to keep sitting there until the meth guy comes home and offers you a hit?"

She stands up. It takes her a minute. Her legs are shaky, and she braces one hand against the wall, and I notice her nails are manicured. Perfect half-moons. Not a single chip.

"I was supposed to meet someone," she says. "A friend. She was going to show me her apartment. She just moved here. But she didn't answer her phone, and I don't know which apartment is hers, and I've been sitting here for two hours because I don't know what else to do."

"Two hours?"

"I didn't want to leave. In case she came back."

"Did you knock?"

"On every door on the third floor. No one answered. Or they answered and told me to go away."

I think about this. The third floor. Mrs. Chen lives on the fourth. The meth guy is on three. The other apartments on three are mostly empty, the building's been half-vacant since the landlord raised rents last spring.

"What's your friend's name?"

"Beatrice. Beatrice Calloway."

I shake my head. "Don't know her. But I know most people in this building. When did she move in?"

"A month ago. Maybe two. I haven't been able to reach her for a week. I thought maybe something happened. I thought maybe she was avoiding me."

"Or maybe she gave you the wrong address."

Margot's face does something complicated. A flinch, then a smoothing over. Like she's practiced at hiding whatever just moved through her.

"Maybe," she says.

I should give her Beatrice's apartment number if I knew it, but I don't. I should offer to help her look, but I've got Mrs. Chen's groceries melting in my arms and a shift to get to. I should do a lot of things.

"Look," I say. "I've got to drop these off. But if you want to wait in the lobby, it's warmer than the stairwell. There's a couch. It's ugly, but it's not covered in anything suspicious. I'll come find you when I'm done."

She looks at me like I've just offered her a kidney.

"Why?" she says.

"Because you look like you need a couch. And I've been there. Not in the shoes, obviously. But the rest of it."

She doesn't say thank you. She just nods, once, and starts down the stairs ahead of me. Her shoes make no sound on the concrete. I watch her go, this girl who doesn't belong here, this girl whose entire outfit costs more than my car, and I feel something I can't name. Something between pity and curiosity and a weird, sharp-edged recognition.

I follow her down.

Mrs. Chen's ice cream is definitely melting.