"Kiara, come in—the place is yours," Everett said, opening the apartment door wide.
"I still need to see it first," I said, dragging my suitcase over the threshold. The lobby had been a fortress of glass and cameras. The foyer smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and something expensive.
"Security signed you in," Everett said. "They asked a lot of questions. They never ask that many questions."
"Is there a ghost on the tenant list?" I joked, because joking is what I do when nervous.
Everett shut the door behind me and pointed. "Two kitchens. Two bathrooms. Two living rooms. One tenant who needs someone to cook for him."
"You said low rent," I said. "You did not say 'cook for a tenant who could be an international problem.'"
Everett grinned like he had a jackpot. "You said you needed a place with stable cameras and good light. I mentioned a roommate situation and you blinked once."
"I blink a lot when I'm hungry," I said, and set my camera bag on the nearest counter. I ran my fingers over the familiar zipper, pulled out a small mirror, checked my hair, then tacked my mic case to my belt without thinking. Habit sounds like a lot; it feels like breathing.
Everett followed my motions. "Check the outlets. The light's perfect for food shots. There's a ring light already mounted in the inner kitchen."
"Already?" I said, scanning. "Who set up a ring light for me and didn
