For nearly three weeks, nothing happened.
That was precisely why the envelope unsettled me.
It arrived on a Tuesday morning, mixed in with the usual collection of grocery advertisements, utility statements, and a reminder from the building management company about an upcoming inspection. I almost threw it away without opening it.
There was no familiar handwriting on the front.
The return address belonged to a solicitor's office across town.
I stood at the kitchen counter with the envelope between my fingers.
My first thought was Daniel.
My second was that I had no reason to think it was Daniel.
He had moved months earlier. Our last conversation had been ordinary. There had been no disagreement, no unresolved argument, no reason for a solicitor to write to me.
Still, I opened it carefully.
The letter was addressed to me by my full name.
It referred to an incident involving the apartment building.
I read the first paragraph twice.
Then I sat down.
The letter did not accuse me of anything. It requested a statement concerning a matter that had occurred before Daniel moved away. Specifically, it asked whether I had observed any unusual activity involving the fourth-floor balcony during the previous year.
I put the letter on the table.
The tea bags came back to me immediately.
Not because I thought Daniel had done anything beyond what I already knew.
Because the wording was strange.
Unusual activity.
Not nuisance.
Not waste.
Not property damage.
Something else.
I called the number at the bottom of the page.
A receptionist answered.
"Collier speaking."
"Yes, Mrs. Collier. I'm calling about your letter."
The receptionist transferred me to a man named Peter Lawson.
He introduced himself as the solicitor handling the matter.
"I want to make something clear," I said. "I don't want to give you information based on assumptions."
"That's exactly why we're contacting you."
"Then tell me what this concerns."
There was a pause.
"I can explain the general issue, but some details are confidential."
I disliked that sentence.
"Fine."
"We're looking into a dispute involving a former resident of your building."
"Daniel Hartley?"
Another pause.
"Yes."
My hand tightened around the phone.
"What dispute?"
"We believe Mr. Hartley may have been the target of repeated harassment."
I said nothing.
The word felt wrong.
Daniel had been irritating.
He had been rude.
He had thrown tea bags onto my balcony.
But harassment was different.
"Why would you ask me?"
"Because your name appears in correspondence concerning an earlier complaint."
"His?"
"No. Yours."
I frowned.
"My complaint was about him throwing waste over my balcony."
"I understand."
"Then why does that matter?"
"We're trying to establish a timeline."
I looked toward the balcony.
The rosemary moved slightly in the morning breeze.
"What happened?"
"I can't discuss the full matter yet."
That answer irritated me.
"You contacted me."
"Because you may have relevant information."
"Then ask me specific questions."
He did.
Had I seen anyone visiting Daniel late at night?
Had I ever noticed someone standing near his balcony?
Had I received messages from him after he moved?
Had I observed anyone tampering with his mailbox?
Had I ever seen anything being thrown onto his balcony from another location?
The questions became increasingly strange.
I answered carefully.
No.
No.
No.
No.
And no.
Then he asked one final question.
"Did Mr. Hartley ever tell you that he believed someone was watching him?"
I stopped.
I remembered the conversation.
The kitchen.
His mother's death.
The unpacked boxes.
The exhaustion.
Nothing about being watched.
"No," I said.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes."
He thanked me.
I hung up.
For several minutes I remained at the table.
The complaint papers were still in the drawer.
I took them out.
The photographs.
The dates.
The copy of Daniel's note.
The management company's response.
Nothing seemed connected.
Except one thing.
The tea bags.
I looked at the first photograph.
The bag had landed near the railing.
Another showed the stained towel.
The third showed the cushion.
The fourth showed Daniel's balcony above mine.
I had always assumed the photographs proved he had thrown them.
Now I noticed something I had never considered.
In several photographs, the tea bags had landed unusually far from the center of my balcony.
One was close to the far railing.
Another was near the corner.
That could still have been explained by a throw from above.
But something about the solicitor's questions made me look at the images differently.
I zoomed in.
The building opposite ours was reflected faintly in the glass door behind me.
Nothing useful.
I put the phone down.
I told myself not to invent mysteries.
That had been Daniel's problem in the beginning.
He had made a simple situation worse by refusing to accept a straightforward request.
I would not do the same.
That evening, I called him.
His number was still saved.
He answered on the fourth ring.
"Margaret?"
"Yes."
"Everything okay?"
"I received a letter from a solicitor."
The silence on the other end was immediate.
"What did they say?"
I told him.
When I finished, he exhaled.
"I was afraid of that."
I sat straighter.
"You knew?"
"I hoped they wouldn't contact you."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want you dragged into it."
"Into what?"
He was quiet.
Then he said, "Someone was following me."
I remembered Peter's question.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"Daniel."
"I don't know."
"How long?"
"Months."
I looked toward the dark balcony.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I thought you already had enough problems with me."
That answer landed harder than I expected.
"You could have told me."
"I know."
"What happened?"
He took a breath.
"I noticed things. A car parked outside. Someone standing across the street. Packages moved. Little things."
"Did you report it?"
"Eventually."
"To the police?"
"Yes."
"Did they find anything?"
"No."
I sat back.
"Then why the solicitor?"
"Because there was another incident."
"What incident?"
He hesitated.
"Someone got into my old apartment."
My stomach tightened.
"When?"
"After I moved."
"You said your apartment was empty."
"It was."
"How did they get in?"
"I don't know."
"Was anything stolen?"
"No."
That was somehow worse.
"Then what?"
"My mother's blue cup."
I stared at the phone.
"The chipped one?"
"Yes."
I remembered him telling me about it.
The cup his mother had insisted on using.
"The police found no forced entry?"
"No."
"Then how—"
"I don't know."
His voice broke slightly.
"I know how this sounds."
"It sounds frightening."
"I didn't want to frighten you."
"You should have told me."
"I know."
We sat in silence.
Then I asked the question that had been bothering me since the letter arrived.
"Daniel, did the tea bags have anything to do with this?"
He did not answer immediately.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.
"I don't know."
That was not what I wanted to hear.
Because suddenly the thing I had treated as a petty act of disrespect had another possible explanation.
Not a good explanation.
Not yet.
But a different one.
"I need to ask you something," I said.
"Okay."
"Did you throw every tea bag?"
The silence became longer.
"No."
I closed my eyes.
"How many?"
"I threw some."
"How many?"
"I don't know."
"Daniel."
"Three."
My eyes opened.
"Three?"
"Maybe four."
"And the others?"
"I thought they were mine."
"What does that mean?"
He breathed out slowly.
"When you first complained, I assumed I'd forgotten."
"But?"
"But after a while, I realized there were tea bags on my balcony too."
I looked at the photographs spread across the table.
"How many?"
"Several."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I thought someone was playing games."
"With you?"
"Yes."
"And you still threw them over?"
He sounded ashamed.
"At first, yes."
I sat back.
That did not excuse anything.
But it changed the picture.
He had thrown some.
Someone else may have thrown others.
And neither of us had known where the line between them was.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I repeated.
"I was embarrassed."
"That is not a good reason."
"I know."
"Did you ever see who was doing it?"
"No."
"Did you see anything else?"
He hesitated.
"Once."
"What?"
"A figure on the opposite roof."
My eyes moved toward the window.
"Why didn't you tell the solicitor?"
"I did."
"Then why are they asking me?"
"Because you were below me."
The room suddenly felt colder.
I gathered the photographs into a stack.
"Daniel."
"Yes?"
"If someone was watching your balcony, they could see mine too."
"I know."
That was the first time his voice sounded genuinely afraid.
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
Then he said, "I'm sorry."
I looked at the locked balcony door.
"For what?"
"For bringing you into this."
"You didn't."
"I should have told you."
"Yes."
"I thought leaving would solve it."
"Did it?"
"No."
"Then maybe leaving wasn't the solution."
He was silent.
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"Tell the solicitor everything."
"Good."
"And I'll send you the information they need."
"Good."
I ended the call.
Then I checked the balcony door.
Locked.
I checked it again.
Locked.
The building was quiet.
But for the first time since Daniel had moved away, I looked at the railing differently.
The tea bags were no longer just tea bags.
Some had been his.
Some might not have been.
And somewhere in the space between those two facts was a question neither of us had thought to ask soon enough.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: The Photographs I Had Saved to Prove a Neighbor Was Wrong Suddenly Became Evidence of Something Neither of Us Had Seen Coming
The Small Brown Stain That Turned an Ordinary Morning Into a Problem I Could No Longer Ignore
Part 5 of 12
