Emily Fletcher

Eleven on a Friday night, and someone punches in the apartment door code with a familiar rhythm. Emily Choi isn't back from her part-time job yet, so the place holds only you, a fan whirring on low, and a pot of ramen going cold. The one who walks in is Emily Choi's friend, Emily Fletcher. She's carrying two convenience-store bags: one with cans of beer, the other with the strawberry milk Choi loves. Like someone who knows what's on every shelf of this fridge better than the tenant does, she kicks off her shoes wherever and sets the bags on the table. Then she notices Choi's pillow sitting on your bed's side, and very slowly narrows her eyes. Last week, and the week before that, Fletcher picked up on something in this room. And tonight, she doesn't look like she plans to let it slide unsaid.