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discovered she lived alone, paid for her rent a year at a time, and—according to the overweight, unwashed man—was “smokin’ hot.”
    “Really,” Jeremy said. “Hot?” It had crossed his mind. The mystery of not being able to see her had sent his imagination into overdrive—one day convinced she was gorgeous, the next day envisioning one of those gargantuan women who have to be forklifted from the couch.
    “ Smokin’ hot. Beautiful face with a body that I jacked off to for days.” Hmmm. Not a forklift woman.
    “How often do you see her?”
    The man laughed. “She’s the mystery of this building, man. She’s hiding from someone . She hasn’t left that apartment since the day she moved in. I mean that literally . The door closed, and that was it. One guy pulled the fire alarm a couple of years ago, just to see if she’d come out. We all stood outside in the freezing-ass cold at two in the morning, but she didn’t budge.” The elevator came to a shuddering stop and the man nodded at Jeremy, moving laboriously ahead of him through the filthy opening. “See you later.”
    Her delivery habits corroborated the super’s statements. The volume of packages she received was staggering, at least for a normal person who didn’t run a retail operation out of her house. They were frequent enough that he made almost daily deliveries to this ancient apartment complex and had become accustomed to and unaffected by the dark elevator that barely made the climb to her floor. And she had consistently, for three years, refused to open her door; his first delivery had been a disastrous standoff that ended in her favor.
    He hadn’t given a second thought to the box, other than the fact that it was incredibly heavy, more than seventy pounds—a large box from an electronics superstore. He almost missed her door, starting to pass it and then stopping short, checking the address before knocking.
    There was movement in the apartment, steps, a small commotion, and then a breathless voice.
    “Yes?”
    “UPS. I have a package for a Deanna Madden.”
    “Just leave it at the door, please.”
    He glanced down at the box. “It’s insured, ma’am. Needs a signature.”
    “So scribble my name.”
    “I’m sorry, I can’t do that. If you need some time to dress, I can wait or come back later.”
    “I’m dressed, but I’m not opening the door. Leave the package and handle the signature however you want to.”
    Her voice was strong but had a sweet tone and enough sass that his mind begged for a look at the woman connected to it. He ground his teeth and looked at the door. “Ma’am, it’s insured for eleven hundred dollars. I can’t leave it without a signature. Would you prefer for me to deliver it tomorrow?”
    “I’m not going to open the door tomorrow either.”
    He fought the urge to groan in frustration. He looked down at the heavy box. “I’m not sure of your size, but the box is pretty heavy. You will probably need help carrying it inside.”
    “I appreciate your concern, but I will be fine. Thank you.”
    Thank you. An assumptive statement that indicated her decision that he was going to leave the box. Decided before he had made up his mind. He sighed, torn between leaving a $1,000 package in this mildewed hallway and taking it with him to try this whole song and dance tomorrow.
    He left the package, doing his best imitation of a girlish script on his scan pad and sending a long look into the dark peephole, trying to communicate his displeasure with the whole situation. Shaking his head, he headed toward the elevator, hoping that he never had to deal with her again.
    That was three years ago. Three years in which he has heard her voice through that door—lugged, toted, and swung countless packages with annoying regularity down that dim hallway. The woman seems to have toilet paper delivered via two-day mail. He looks down at the manila package, for Jessica Reilly. The sender is a mail-forwarding company in Des