PART 3
My heart began pounding.
I pushed the door open another few inches.
The first thing I noticed was the floor.
It was clean.
Not just clean.
Spotless.
The trail of salt and dirt I had tracked in that morning was gone. The shoes Liam had kicked beside the couch were neatly lined against the wall.
Then I looked at the kitchen.
I nearly dropped my purse.
The faucet wasn’t dripping anymore.
The loose cabinet door had been removed from its crooked hinges and repaired.
The pile of unopened mail that had been sitting beside the microwave had been sorted into neat stacks.
The broken drawer that had refused to close for months was sitting perfectly flush.
Even the flickering kitchen light was gone.
I took another step.
“Mom,” Liam whispered.
I didn’t answer.
My eyes had moved toward the living room.
Our old couch had been pulled away from the wall.
Behind it was a patch of damaged plaster I had been meaning to report to the landlord.
It had been repaired.
Not professionally.
But carefully.
Smoothly.
There was no hole anymore.
The torn seam on the couch cushion had been stitched together with dark thread.
The loose leg on our coffee table had been tightened.
And sitting on the table was a handwritten note.
My stomach dropped.
I didn’t want to touch it.
I picked it up anyway.
Three words were written across the front.
YOU DESERVE BETTER.
I looked at Liam.
“Where’s Marcus?”
“I don’t know.”
My voice came out barely above a whisper.
I checked the bathroom.
Empty.
The bedroom hallway.
Empty.
The kitchen.
Empty.
Then I noticed the front closet.
Marcus’s duffel bag was gone.
So was the old hoodie I had given him.
He had left.
But he hadn’t simply left.
He had spent the entire day repairing my home.
I stood there trying to understand what I was looking at.
Liam suddenly ran toward the kitchen.
“Mom!”
I followed him.
He was pointing at the refrigerator.
A sheet of paper had been attached to it with a magnet.
It was a list.
Things I fixed:
Faucet washer
Cabinet hinge
Drawer track
Door frame
Couch seam
Coffee table leg
Bathroom shelf
Bedroom outlet cover
At the bottom was another sentence.
I couldn’t fix everything. I’m sorry.
Liam looked at me.
“He fixed our house.”
“I can see that.”
“Why?”
I stared at the handwriting.
“I don’t know.”
Then Liam noticed something.
“Mom.”
“What?”
He pointed toward the stove.
There was a pot sitting there.
Steam curled gently from beneath the lid.
I slowly lifted it.
Chicken soup.
Carrots.
Potatoes.
Celery.
The kind of soup I used to make when Liam got sick.
Beside it was a loaf of homemade bread.
Still warm.
There was another note.
For Liam. He said he likes soup.
My throat tightened.
I sat down at the kitchen table.
Liam climbed into the chair across from me.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he asked quietly,
“Do you think he’s coming back?”
I looked at the empty couch.
“No.”
I wasn’t sure whether I was answering him or myself.
But there was something bothering me.
Something I couldn’t explain.
Marcus had told us he was homeless.
He had told us he’d been injured at work.
He had told us the shelter was full.
But nothing about the man I had met the night before explained what I was seeing.
The repairs were too precise.
The handwriting was too careful.
The way he had diagnosed the faucet without even touching it properly.
The way he had immediately noticed the shifted door frame.
The way he’d looked at our electrical outlet.
He wasn’t just a man who knew how to fix things.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
And suddenly, I remembered something else.
The night before, while we were eating dinner, Marcus had asked a strange question.
Not about me.
Not about Liam.
He had asked,
“Has your landlord ever tried to enter without giving you notice?”
At the time, I thought it was an odd question.
Now it made my skin crawl.
I stood up.
“Liam, stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“To check something.”
I walked toward my bedroom.
The door was locked exactly as I had left it.
My purse was inside.
The folder containing my documents was still where I’d put it.
Nothing had been touched.
I opened the folder.
Birth certificate.
Social Security cards.
Lease agreement.
Tax documents.
Insurance papers.
Everything was there.
I exhaled.
Maybe I had imagined the danger.
Maybe Marcus really was just a good man who happened to know how to repair things.
Then I noticed the lease.
There was something written on the back of the envelope.
Not in Marcus’s handwriting.
A phone number.
And beneath it, two words.
CALL ME.
My heart stopped.
I knew that handwriting.
It belonged to my landlord.
I had seen it on rent notices.
On maintenance forms.
On the warning letter he’d slipped under our door two weeks earlier.
I picked up the phone.
Before I could dial, Liam screamed from the kitchen.
“Mom!”
I ran.
He was standing beside the refrigerator, holding something in his hand.
A tiny black object.
“What is that?”
“I found it behind the fridge.”
I took it from him.
It was a small electronic device.
A camera.
My blood ran cold.
“Don’t touch anything else.”
I immediately pulled Liam away.
I stared at the tiny lens.
Someone had been watching us.
I grabbed my phone and called the police.
But before the call connected, another thought hit me.
Marcus had repaired the apartment.
He had been here all day.
He must have seen it.
He must have known.
And if he knew…
Why hadn’t he simply called the police?
Why had he left?
The call connected.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
I opened my mouth.
Then stopped.
Because suddenly, I remembered the note.
YOU DESERVE BETTER.
And beneath it, in much smaller handwriting that I hadn’t noticed before, were four words.
Don’t trust the landlord.
I looked at Liam.
Then at the camera.
Then at our front door.
And for the first time, I realized something terrifying.
Maybe Marcus hadn’t been fixing our apartment because he wanted to thank us.
Maybe he had been searching for something.
Something someone had hidden inside our home.
And whatever he had found had frightened him enough to disappear.
PART 4
The dispatcher was still speaking when I heard three hard knocks on our apartment door.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Liam grabbed my arm.
“Mom.”
I put my finger to my lips.
The dispatcher asked, “Ma’am, are you still there?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “Someone is at my door.”
“Do not open it. Officers are being dispatched.”
I moved Liam behind me.
Another knock came.
This time, a man’s voice followed.
“Chloe? It’s Mr. Harris from management.”
My stomach twisted.
Our landlord.
I looked at the tiny camera in my hand.
Then I looked at the door.
“How does he know I’m home?” Liam whispered.
I didn’t answer.
Because I knew.
Someone had been watching us.
I lowered my voice into the phone.
“He’s here.”
The dispatcher told me to stay away from the door.
I stepped backward.
“Mr. Harris,” I called.
“Yes?”
“What do you want?”
A pause.
Then:
“I received a report that someone unauthorized was staying in your apartment last night.”
My blood ran cold.
“How would you know that?”
Another pause.
“I have a maintenance concern.”
“I didn’t request maintenance.”
“I need to inspect the unit.”
“No.”
His tone changed.
“Chloe, don’t make this difficult.”
I stared at the door.
That sentence was something I had heard from him before.
Every time I complained about the broken heater.
Every time I asked about the leaking ceiling.
Every time I mentioned the rent increase.
Don’t make this difficult.
I suddenly understood why Marcus had asked about unauthorized entry.
He had noticed something.
Something I hadn’t.
“I’m not opening the door,” I said.
The hallway went silent.
Then Mr. Harris spoke again.
“You should think carefully about that.”
I felt Liam’s fingers tighten around mine.
The dispatcher heard him.
“Ma’am, officers are on their way. Stay inside and do not engage.”
I whispered, “Okay.”
For nearly a minute, there was no sound.
Then footsteps moved away.
I waited.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Twenty.
Nothing.
Finally, I heard the elevator doors open.
Then close.
I let out the breath I’d been holding.
Liam looked up at me.
“Is he bad?”
I didn’t know how to answer.
“I don’t know.”
“But Marcus knew.”
“Yes.”
“Then we need to find him.”
I looked down at the camera in my hand.
Maybe he was right.
But finding Marcus wasn’t going to be easy.
We didn’t have his phone number.
We didn’t know where he slept.
We didn’t even know his last name.
All I had was a first name and a memory of a tired man sitting outside a grocery store.
Then I remembered the duffel bag.
There had been a small patch sewn onto the side.
A company logo.
I had seen it the night before but hadn’t paid attention.
I rushed to the kitchen and grabbed my phone.
I searched the name.
Nothing.
Then I remembered something else.
The work accident.
Marcus had said it happened at work.
“What kind of job?” I whispered to myself.
Liam suddenly said,
“He told me.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Last night. When you were washing the dishes.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he used to fix elevators.”
My heart skipped.
“Elevators?”
Liam nodded.
“He said they used to call him when elevators stopped working.”
I searched Chicago elevator repair companies.
There were dozens.
But one logo stood out.
A blue circle with a silver line through the middle.
Exactly like the patch on Marcus’s duffel bag.
Northstar Vertical Systems.
I clicked the company website.
The business had been operating for twenty-two years.
Commercial elevators.
Hospital equipment lifts.
Industrial platforms.
Emergency repairs.
Then I saw a section titled:
Safety Investigation — 18 Months Ago
My pulse quickened.
I opened it.
There was a photograph.
A damaged elevator shaft.
And underneath it:
Employee Injury Lawsuit Following Mechanical Failure
I scrolled.
Then froze.
There he was.
Marcus Reed.
Thirty-nine years old.
Senior field technician.
The article said Marcus had been inspecting an elevator at a downtown hotel when a safety mechanism failed.
He fell nearly twenty feet.
He survived.
But the injuries ended his career.
The company claimed the accident was caused by technician negligence.
Marcus had disputed that claim.
The case was still unresolved.
I stared at the screen.
“Mom?”
I couldn’t speak.
Then I noticed something else.
The accident report listed one of the investigators.
Daniel Harris.
My hands began shaking.
I looked at Liam.
“That’s our landlord.”
The room suddenly felt too small.
Mr. Harris wasn’t just some landlord who wanted to inspect our apartment.
He had a connection to Marcus.
A very serious one.
I called the police again and gave them everything I had found.
Twenty minutes later, two officers arrived.
They inspected the camera.
They photographed the door.
They spoke to me separately.
One of them asked,
“Did you invite the man into your home?”
“Yes.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
“Did he damage anything?”
“No.”
“Then why do you believe he is involved?”
I showed them the accident report.
The officer read it carefully.
His expression changed.
“You’re saying your landlord was connected to this accident?”
“According to this report.”
He looked at his partner.
“Interesting.”
They searched the apartment.
Then one officer crouched behind the refrigerator.
He examined the wall.
“There’s another device.”
I felt sick.
Another camera.
This one was wired into the electrical outlet.
The officer carefully removed it.
“Whoever installed these knew what they were doing.”
I thought about Marcus.
Then the officer asked,
“Did your guest mention anything about your landlord?”
“Only that I should be careful.”
“Did he say why?”
“No.”
The officer stood.
“Until we know more, don’t let your landlord inside.”
I nodded.
After they left, Liam and I sat on the couch.
Neither of us touched the soup.
Neither of us spoke.
Then my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
I stared at it.
A text appeared.
You need to leave the apartment tonight.
I looked at Liam.
Another message arrived.
Don’t call the police again.
My hands went numb.
Then a third.
Your son is not safe there.
I stood up so quickly that Liam jumped.
“Mom?”
I didn’t answer.
I called the number.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then went to voicemail.
A man’s voice came through.
Quiet.
Breathing heavily.
Then:
“Chloe.”
I recognized him.
“Marcus?”
Silence.
Then he said,
“I didn’t have time to explain.”
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You put cameras in my apartment?”
“No.”