…food,” she finished. “He brings a screwdriver. I’ve watched him work on your balcony door three nights in a row.” I stopped breathing. “Who are you?” I whispered. “Where are you?” There was a pause. “Look out your kitchen window,” she said. “Fourth floor, across the courtyard. I’m waving.”
She was. A small woman in a yellow cardigan, holding up her phone in one hand and waving with the other. “My name is Marjorie,” she said. “I moved here in 2023 when I found out where Oliver went. I’m sorry. I know how that sounds. I just couldn’t stop worrying about him. I can see your whole balcony from my kitchen.”
I wanted to be furious with her. I didn’t have time. “Call the police,” she said. “Now. Tonight is the fourth night. He always comes at 1 a.m. He’s getting closer to the lock.”
I called. Two officers sat in my dark living room that night. At 1:04 a.m., a shadow climbed onto my fire escape. The officers waited until his screwdriver was in the door frame. Then they opened the door from the inside.
He was the building’s night maintenance man. He had a key to every apartment except mine, because I’d changed my lock when I moved in. When police searched his truck, they found photos of six women in our building, all living alone, all taken through their windows.
The next morning, Marjorie knocked on my door with a bag of cat treats and an apology card. I let her in. Oliver ran straight to her and climbed into her lap like he’d been waiting three years.
I didn’t give him back. She didn’t ask me to. Instead, she comes over every Wednesday now, through the front door, and the two of them sit on my balcony together. I don’t love that she watched me. But I’ll never forget that she was the only person in that building who was watching the right thing.
