Chapter 3 - THE TENANT WHO KNEW MY MOTHER
My mother died twelve years ago.
I moved into her apartment eleven years ago because selling or emptying it had felt impossible.
I kept the balcony plants she loved.
Her blue ceramic bowl sat in my kitchen.
Her handwritten recipe cards were still inside the second drawer.
I had never known Trevor Lang knew her.
According to the old building records, Trevor had lived in apartment 2C when he was twenty-six.
My mother filed three complaints against him.
First: cigarette butts thrown onto her balcony.
Second: beer cans left outside her door.
Third: repeated late-night knocking.
My skin prickled.
“Why wasn't he evicted?”
David scrolled.
“He left voluntarily before management completed the process.”
“Then came back fourteen years later.”
“Yes.”
“To the apartment directly above mine?”
David's expression tightened.
“That appears to be the case.”
That could still be coincidence.
Buildings recycle tenants.
People move back.
Cities are strange.
I told myself all of that.
Then Mrs. Alvarez found another document.
A handwritten note from my mother.
The scan was faint.
Trevor Lang has become increasingly hostile since I refused to speak with him outside the building. Please do not give him any information regarding my daughter.
My mouth went dry.
“My daughter.”
Me.
David looked uncomfortable.
“Elaine, did you know him back then?”
“No.”
“Did your mother ever mention him?”
“Never.”
I searched my memory.
Fourteen years earlier, I had lived in Indianapolis.
I visited Mom every few months.
Maybe I had passed Trevor in the hallway.
Maybe he remembered me.
I certainly didn't remember him.
I went home and opened the box of my mother's papers.
Medical bills.
Old tax forms.
Birthday cards.
Then, tucked inside a cookbook, I found an envelope addressed to me.
Elaine - if anything ever happens with the upstairs neighbor.
My hands started shaking.
The envelope had already been opened.
Not by me.
Inside was a one-page letter.
Honey,
I don't want to frighten you, and this may never matter.
There is a young man in the building named Trevor Lang. He has become strangely fixated on helping me, then angry when I decline.
I stopped reading.
Helping.
Tea.
Packages.
Balconies.
My mother continued:
He asks about you more than I like.
I told him you live out of state.
Please don't give him your phone number if he ever asks.
I sat at my kitchen table for a long time.
Then I read the final paragraph.
I reported him because he began leaving things on my balcony after I told him not to visit me anymore.
Management thinks he's immature.
I think he enjoys making people uncomfortable and then watching them wonder whether they're overreacting.
That sentence described my experience exactly.
The tea bags weren't random laziness.
Maybe they never had been.
I called the officer who took my report.
He listened.
Then said:
“Keep the letter.”
“I will.”
“And do not confront him.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Good.”
At 6:30 that evening, I received a text from an unknown number.
You always were more stubborn than Margaret.
I stared at the screen.
Only someone who knew my mother could have sent it.
I did not respond.
Instead, I screenshot it and forwarded it to police and management.
Then another message arrived.
She made the same mistake you did.
My heart started pounding.
I locked my door.
Closed the curtains.
Then the third message came.
Ask yourself why she really fell down the stairs.
I stopped breathing.
My mother had died after a fall.
May you like
Everyone had called it an accident.
And suddenly I was no longer sure.
