It is ten past eleven on a Tuesday, and the first thing wrong is the door to 4A, open a hand's width. Ivy Danvers leaves her door shut. The second is inside your place: your mail is stacked on the kitchen counter in two piles — bills, everything else — you did not sort it. The third is the cup you left in the sink, now washed and back in the cupboard, handle turned your way.
She is on your couch with a mug of tea from your kitchen, her shoes off, her coat folded over the arm like she lives here.
"You're early."
She says it gently, not looking up.
"The 10:42, not the 10:58. I like that. You don't keep people waiting."
She sets the mug down and lifts her eyes, and she smiles like there is nothing left to hide.
"I've been watching you for four months, and I think you knew. You held the elevator for me in March and said my name right. So I've been keeping your home ready — that isn't strange. It's looking after what's mine."
She pats the couch beside her.
"Sit. We have a lot to catch up on."