The wind pushed a plastic bag across the roof. It caught on a bucket, then broke free and disappeared over the edge.
Maya didn't watch it go. She was looking at Leo's hands. They were still in his coat pockets. She wondered if he was cold or nervous.
"You knew it was my sketchbook," she said. "From the drawings."
"I recognized the garden." He tilted his head toward the buckets. "You've got a specific way of drawing those tomato leaves. Curved strokes, tight together. I'd seen it before."
"Where?"
"In the black sketchbook. The one you found." He pulled his right hand out of his pocket and pointed at her. "You left yours on the milk crate. I opened it. I saw the garden drawings. Then I looked at my own drawings of the same garden. Same leaves. Same curves."
Maya crossed her arms. "So you followed my style."
"I noticed it. There's a difference."
The fluorescent light from the stairwell flickered behind him. His face went from shadow to half-lit every few seconds. She still couldn't see his eyes clearly.
"Why didn't you just introduce yourself?" she asked. "The first time. On the roof."
"Because you weren't here. I came up, found your sketchbook, waited ten minutes. You didn't come back." He shrugged. "So I left a note. I didn't think you'd want a stranger knocking on your door at midnight."
"You left the note on the dryer."
"Safer than leaving it on the roof. Someone else could have taken it."
She nodded slowly. That made sense. She didn't like that it made sense.
"The watering can," she said. "You drew that in my book. Without asking."
Leo was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You're right. I shouldn't have."
"No."
"I'm sorry."
The apology landed flat. Not because it was insincere, but because it was simple. No excuses. No explanations. Just I'm sorry.
Maya didn't know what to do with that.
She sat back down on the milk crate. The plastic was cold through her jeans. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them.
Leo stayed where he was, near the door. He didn't come closer.
"Why do you come up here?" she asked.
"Same reason you do. It's quiet."
"It's not quiet. There's the F train three blocks away, the highway on the other side, and Mrs. Patterson's TV plays game shows until midnight."
He almost smiled again. "Quiet enough."
She looked at the building across the alley. The dark window. "You draw from your apartment."
"When I can't sleep."
"What do you draw?"
"Whatever I see. The laundromat. The bodega on the corner. The woman who sells fruit on Fulton." He paused. "Your garden."
She felt her shoulders tighten. "How long have you been watching it?"
"I'm not watching it. I'm watching the light. How it hits the pots in the morning. How the shadows move in the afternoon." He shifted his weight. "The garden is just there. I draw what's there."
"You could draw anything."
"I draw what's there."
The wind picked up again. A loose piece of tar paper flapped against the water tank. The painted eye stared at nothing.
Maya stood. She was tired. Not sleepy-tired. The tired that came from holding too many questions at once.
"I should go down," she said.
Leo nodded. "I'll stay a few more minutes."
She walked toward the door. He stepped aside to let her pass. As she reached for the handle, she stopped.
"The bridge cables," she said without turning around. "You said the angle should be steeper."
"Yes."
"How much steeper?"
He didn't answer right away. She heard him exhale. Then he said, "Five degrees. Maybe six. The left tower is closer than you think. You drew it from the southwest corner of the roof. But the perspective flattens when you're that close to the edge."
She turned to look at him. "You know which corner I drew from?"
"I've drawn the same bridge from the same corner. Different time of day. Different light." He met her eyes for the first time. His were brown. Not dark brown. The kind of brown that caught light. "You're not the only one who uses that spot."
She held his gaze for three seconds. Then she opened the door and went down.
---
Her room was cold.
She'd left the window open. The radiator hissed but didn't produce much heat. She closed the window and sat on the mattress.
The black sketchbook was still in her desk drawer. She pulled it out and opened to the drawing of her garden. She looked at it differently now. Not as a stranger's work, but as Leo's. The man from the roof. The man who knew about perspective and light and five-degree angles.
She turned to the back cover. The note was still there. I'm not a creep. Just a neighbor.
She'd believed that when she first read it. Did she still believe it?
She didn't know.
She put the sketchbook back in the drawer and lay down. The ceiling crack looked like a river. She followed it with her eyes until her lids got heavy.
---
The next morning, she woke to the sound of a jackhammer.
Somewhere on Franklin Avenue, construction had started early. She checked her phone. 7:15 AM. She'd slept five hours.
She made coffee in her single-cup maker – the one that leaked if she poured too fast. She drank it standing by the window, looking down at the street. A man walked a dog. A woman pushed a stroller. A delivery truck blocked the crosswalk.
Then she looked across the alley.
Third floor. The window was open. The curtain was still. No one was inside.
She finished her coffee and washed the mug in the bathroom sink. The faucet dripped. Same as always.
At 8:30, she went to Mrs. Patterson's door.
The old woman answered in the same floral nightgown. Her glasses were on straight today.
"You're up early," Mrs. Patterson said.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Same." She stepped aside. "Come in. I made toast."
Maya sat at the kitchen table. Mrs. Patterson put a plate in front of her – two slices of white bread with butter. No toaster. She'd used the oven broiler. The bread was crispy on top, soft underneath.
"Did you go to the roof last night?" Mrs. Patterson asked.
Maya paused mid-bite. "How did you know?"
"I heard the door. It squeaks." She sat across from her with her own plate. "You shouldn't go up there alone at night."
"I wasn't alone."
Mrs. Patterson raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"A neighbor from the building next door. He has permission to use the roof."
"What neighbor?"
"His name is Leo."
Mrs. Patterson chewed her toast slowly. "I don't know any Leo."
"He lives across the alley. Third floor."
The old woman set down her bread. "The third floor across the alley is empty. Has been for six months. Ever since the fire."
Maya stopped chewing.
"Small fire," Mrs. Patterson continued. "Electrical. No one got hurt. But the landlord never fixed it. No one's lived there since."
"You're sure?"
"I know every window on this block, Maya. I've been here since 1987." She tapped her temple. "Third floor across the alley. Empty."
Maya put her toast down. Her stomach turned.
"You said his name was Leo?" Mrs. Patterson asked.
"Yes."
"Never heard of him."
Maya stood. "I have to go."
"Sit down. Finish your breakfast."
"I can't." She was already at the door. "I'll come back later."
She didn't wait for an answer.
---
She ran up the stairs to the roof. The door was still propped open with the brick. She pushed through and crossed to the edge facing the alley.
The building next door was brick, four stories, fire escape on the left. She counted windows. First floor – a restaurant kitchen. Second floor – dark curtains. Third floor – window open, curtain still.
She leaned over the edge. The alley was twelve feet wide. She could see into the window if she tried.
She tried.
The room inside was empty. No furniture. No desk. No lamp. Just bare floorboards and a water stain on the wall.
No one had drawn there last night. No one had sat at a table with a desk lamp.
The silhouette she'd seen – the hand moving, the short strokes – had been a trick of the light. Or a lie.
She stepped back from the edge.
The roof door creaked. She turned.
No one was there.
But the brick had moved. It was no longer holding the door open. The door was closed.
She walked to it and pushed. It didn't move.
She pushed harder. Nothing.
The handle turned, but the door didn't open. Something was blocking it from the other side.
Maya pulled out her phone. No signal.
She looked at the water tank. The painted eye stared back.
She was trapped.