“I have it right here.”

“Hmm. That’s weird. We got a message saying a package was dropped off with you.”

“If you’re having a stroke or something that requires the defibrillator let me know by banging your head three times against the phone and I’ll be sure to send the defibrillator up to you real slow.”

“Okay, thanks.” I hang up and turn to Strad. “He says there’s no package.”

“Really? Do you mind if I speak to him to be sure he didn’t make a mistake?”

“Of course he didn’t make a mistake. You heard how thorough I was.”

“Yeah, but still. I want to make sure.”

Clearly Strad won’t let this rest until either he speaks to Adam himself or goes downstairs and looks for the present with his own eyes. There’s no point in my trying to stop him. What’s important now is that I not let him call Adam, who would inform him I’ve been lying, which could offend Strad enough to make him leave and no longer be under our protection.

“No, I’ll do it,” I say, picking up the intercom phone before Strad can respond, though I do catch the expression of frustration on his face.

Adam answers.

“Hi, it’s me again,” I say.

“Stop plaguing me.”

“Sorry to bother you again, but could you please check in the back to make sure there isn’t a package for Strad? Maybe it was dropped off earlier when Bill was at the desk, and maybe he forgot to put it in the system.”

“What kind of game are you playing?” Adam asks me.

“Thanks,” I say. I wait enough time for Adam to theoretically go to the back, while in reality he’s treating me to a litany of insults. After a few more seconds I say into the phone, “Ah, you do have it? Great!”

“Leave me alone.”

“Well, that explains it. Thanks for checking.” I hang up.

“He does have it,” I tell Strad. “Sure enough, it got dropped off when Bill was on duty.”

“Great. I’ll get it. Don’t serve the fruit salad. I’ll do it when I get back.”

He walks out the door. We do as well.

“Be back in a jiffy!” he says, waving.

We flank him as he walks down the hallway.

“Why are you guys doing this? I’m not a moron; I won’t get lost a second time. You don’t even have your shoes on.”

“That’s all right,” Jack says. “The person on the phone didn’t say who they were or who the present was from. I’d stay as far away from that supposed present as possible if I were you.”

“Jack is a cop,” Lily adds. “He knows what he’s talking about. Let’s just go back to the apartment, Strad.”

Ignoring her suggestion, Strad steps into the elevator. We squeeze in around him.

“It’s wonderful to be escorted and embraced this way by your group, to be taken into your fold,” he says. “You guys must like me. I feel cuddled by five mother hens. Does this mean I’m part of your exclusive inner circle, now? Am I one of you?”

We don’t answer. When the elevator doors open again, we follow him down the long hallway to the second elevator. I’m in a trance, thinking that if we survive the opening of the present, I will take extra precautions for the rest of the evening, starting with his cell phone confiscation. I don’t care how strange it makes me look. Appearances are nothing. Anyway, it’s my apartment, my rules. And let’s not forget that there is also my special backup precaution, which I was hoping to avoid using due to its extreme deviance. But perhaps the time has come.

We take the second elevator down and arrive in the lobby.

Wanting to be the first to examine the box for any suspicious signs, I move ahead of my friends and go straight to the front desk, behind which Adam is standing.

“Hi, Adam. Can I have that package, please?”

Handing me the box, he leans toward my ear and whispers, “Scumbag.”

“Thank you so much,” I say, smiling.

I haven’t yet told my friends about the doorman’s strange behavior these past few months.

I look at the writing on the box. There’s no return name or address. Just the recipient’s name, Strad Ellison, c/o my name, and my apartment number.

“When was this dropped off?” I ask Adam.

He looks at me and knows he can’t insult me since my friends are next to me, staring at him, waiting for his answer.

“About half an hour ago,” he says. “And I’m very sorry about the misunderstanding we had on the phone when I kept telling you the package was right here, and you kept thinking I said it wasn’t. I’m glad we cleared that up, eventually.” He looks at my friends.

“Yes,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Strad staring at me. “Who delivered it?” I ask Adam.

“A woman,” he says.

“Did she give her name?”

“No.”

“Did she say anything at all?”

“She said the package was for your guest, Strad Ellison. That’s all.”

“What did she look like?”

“Asian. Early twenties. Shoulder-length hair.”

“Anything else you can remember?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Adam.”

He nods.

Strad takes the box from me. Luckily, it’s sealed tightly, so there’s no choice but to wait until we get back to my apartment to open it.

On our way up, I gaze at my friends’ faces. By dint of imagining each of them in the role of the killer, they’ve each become the killer in my eyes.

Back in my apartment, I instruct everybody to go to the couch area and stay there while I fetch the scissors from my bedroom.

Upon my return, I inform Strad that I must be the one to open the box, that I never let anyone handle my scissors.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he tells me. “You said earlier that you didn’t want anyone to be eccentric tonight. So I’m wondering, is this your version of not being eccentric? What I mean is, are you usually even more eccentric?”

Not sure what to answer, I meekly settle for: “I’m not being that eccentric. It’s just a habit I have with scissors.”

“Why did you lie about my package?”

“It made me nervous. You didn’t know who it was from.”

Georgia says, “Plus, we were having such a good time, why interrupt the fun?”

“Okay, open it,” he tells me.

“Everyone, step away,” I caution.

I don’t want anyone to make a lunge for whatever weapon might be in the box. And if it does turn out to be a bomb, the farther away they stand, the better.

“Farther,” I say. They take another step back. “You too, Strad.”

Everyone is now standing a good six feet away from me.

As I carefully cut the tape around the box, I start getting more worried that it might actually be a bomb.

“If you think you can zero in on your target with surgical precision, you are wrong,” I say, speaking to the killer while staring at the tape I’m cutting. “Perhaps you will hit your target, but you’ll hit us as well—yourself included—and me in particular. I’ll be disfigured beyond recognition, which is okay with me, but is it okay with you? I’ll be blinded, I may even get killed. So many of us could get killed. Do you really want to harm us this way? Is it really worth it?”

“Eccentric is not the right word,” Strad says to Lily, who smiles politely through her fear.

I continue addressing the killer: “Think about it. You don’t have much time. You better decide quickly because there won’t be any turning back once the box is opened.”

I glance at my friends. They all seem extremely tense, holding their breaths.

Penelope exhales suddenly and says, “I feel faint.” She sits on the couch.

I’ve finished cutting the tape. I lift the flaps, push aside the crumpled paper, and see my face staring back at me from the bottom of the box. It’s an antique-style mirror with a handle and an ornately molded frame. I take it out of the box.

The tension leaves the room like a change in cabin pressure.

I pull the rest of the packing paper out of the box. Nothing else is in it. No bomb, no weapon.

I turn the mirror over. Beautifully engraved on the back is the name “Strad” and underneath it are the words, “See Differently.”