Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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My Christian Louboutin pumps smack the pavement in a rhythmic click-clack as I cross the busy Manhattan Street. My long, honey-blonde hair tickles my back as it bounces against my bare shoulder blades and my peach Chanel sundress flutters around my knees in the warm spring breeze. Taxi cabs honk their horns and clog the streets, highlighting them in yellow as they rush people to meetings and business dinners. Clouds of exhaust pollute the air as buses whoosh by. Vendors call out and advertise asinine prices on fake Gucci sunglasses, and Louis Vuitton and Hermes Birkin handbags. Tourists pack the sidewalks.
Any other day, I'd be cursing the gridlock and the obscene reality that it takes thirty minutes and what feels like an entire day's pay to move two measly miles. I'd channel the frustration into a merciless spin class, punishing an entirely innocent bike for the sins of Manhattan traffic
But today isn't any other day. Today, I got the kind of news wannabe journalists whisper about in break rooms and manifest on vision boards. The kind of news that changes things.
By the time I reach the front steps of my dreamy Upper East Side brownstone, the city's noise feels almost cinematic instead of chaotic. I climb the stairs lighter than I've felt in months, already turning over my options – candlelit Italian? Rooftop sushi? Something impossibly exclusive that requires a reservation I absolutely do not have?
Tonight calls for something worthy of the moment.
As I unlock the front door and type in the code to the security system, excitement bubbles inside of me.
"Hey! I'm home!" I call out. I can't stop smiling as I step out of my heels and place my keys onto the cherrywood end table in the spacious foyer. "Will! You here? I have news!"
"Shit!" I hear a voice hiss from upstairs.
My eagerness evaporates as the thud of footsteps and a thunderous crash echo against the high ceilings in the main stairwell. My breath catches in my throat, my eyes frantically darting around the room as I search for signs of an intruder, unsure of what I'll do if I find any. Will and I live in a safe neighborhood, and have a top-notch security system, but this is New York. Safe is never safe enough.
"H - hello?" I call out again, my voice weak and unsteady. "Will, is that you?"
Another crash. More agitated whispers.
Are we seriously being robbed in broad daylight?
My chest cinches tight, my heartbeat accelerating so violently it feels like an EDM bass drop detonating beneath my ribs – loud, relentless, impossible to ignore. Each pulse pounds against my sternum, echoing in my ears. I slide my phone from my purse with trembling fingers and start up the stairs one cautious step at a time, every creak amplified in the silence. Halfway up, doubt slams into me
Why didn't I run back outside and call 911? What exactly am I planning to do here – solve the mystery with sheer determination and a decent blowout?
Apparently, I've chosen to channel my inner Nancy Drew.
