Chapter 2 - THE FOOTPRINT ON THE BALCONY
There was a muddy shoe print beside the shattered flowerpot.
That changed everything.
Tea bags thrown from above were obnoxious.
Someone physically entering my second-floor balcony at two in the morning was something else entirely.
I did not step outside.
Instead, I locked the sliding door, photographed everything through the glass, and called building security.
Our building wasn't luxurious enough to have guards patrolling every floor, but we did have an overnight desk attendant named Marcus.
He arrived ten minutes later with Mrs. Alvarez on speakerphone.
Marcus examined the balcony.
“How would somebody get up here?”
“There’s a fire escape at the end of the building.”
He looked over the railing.
“Possible.”
I pointed toward the muddy print.
“Don't touch it.”
He nodded.
Mrs. Alvarez told him to preserve the hallway and exterior-camera footage.
Then she told me something unexpected.
“Elaine, Trevor signed for a written warning yesterday at five forty-three.”
“I know. He came to my door.”
“He was specifically instructed not to contact you about the complaint.”
I almost laughed.
“So he violated the warning within thirty minutes?”
“Yes.”
“Does the building have cameras on the fire escape?”
A pause.
“One at the ground-floor exit.”
“Can we check it?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
I slept badly.
At eight, Mrs. Alvarez called.
“Come downstairs.”
I found her in the office with Marcus and the building's regional manager, a man named David Kim.
The camera footage was already paused on a monitor.
Timestamp:
2:09 a.m.
A figure wearing a hood entered the fire escape.
At 2:14, the person climbed back down.
The face was hidden.
But the jacket had a distinctive white stripe across the shoulders.
I recognized it.
Trevor wore that jacket constantly.
David looked at me.
“Is that your neighbor?”
“It looks like him.”
“We need more than looks.”
Marcus switched cameras.
Lobby footage.
At 1:58 a.m., Trevor entered the building.
Same jacket.
At 2:24, he walked through the lobby again and left through the front door.
No hood this time.
Same shoes.
Same jacket.
Mrs. Alvarez folded her arms.
“That’s enough for me.”
David was more cautious.
“We document it. And Elaine, I strongly recommend filing a police report.”
I hesitated.
Police felt enormous.
Then I looked at the image of someone climbing toward my home while I slept.
“Okay.”
The responding officer arrived an hour later.
He was calm, professional, and much less dramatic than television had taught me to expect.
I showed him the videos.
The written warning.
The broken planter.
The footprint.
He took notes.
“Did he threaten you?”
“Nothing specific.”
“What did he say?”
“Last night he said I had no idea what kind of mistake I'd made.”
The officer looked up.
“And previously?”
“He told me I should be grateful it was only tea.”
He wrote that down too.
Trevor was not arrested.
There wasn't enough evidence to prove he had damaged the planter himself.
But the report existed now.
A number.
A date.
A record.
By noon, Mrs. Alvarez delivered a second lease violation.
By three, Trevor had emailed management claiming I was harassing him.
His complaint said I had developed an “obsession with his private balcony habits.”
David called me into the office.
“I want you to hear this directly from me. We're not treating his complaint as equivalent.”
“Thank you.”
“You have documentation. He has accusations.”
Then David frowned.
“There is one thing.”
“What?”
“Trevor claims he has lived here longer than you.”
I laughed.
“I've been here eleven years. He moved in last winter.”
“That’s what our system says.”
“Then why would he lie?”
David turned his monitor toward me.
Trevor's application listed a previous address.
Apartment 2C.
Same building.
Fourteen years earlier.
I stared.
“He lived here before?”
“Apparently.”
“Why is that important?”
David clicked another file.
An old incident report.
Tenant complaint.
Balcony debris.
My stomach tightened.
“Tea bags?”
David shook his head.
“Cigarette butts.”
“Against who?”
He opened the scanned report.
The complainant's name appeared.
Margaret Parker.
I stopped breathing.
May you like
Margaret Parker had been my mother.
And fourteen years ago, she had lived in my exact apartment.
