The next morning, I called Peter Lawson before breakfast.
I told him Daniel had admitted that he had not thrown every tea bag.
There was a pause.
"That's significant," he said.
"How significant?"
"We'll need to review the photographs."
"I can send them."
"Please do."
I emailed the original files rather than screenshots.
Years of working with records had taught me that small details sometimes mattered more than the obvious ones.
After sending them, I sat at my desk and looked through every photograph again.
I enlarged the background.
I checked reflections.
I examined shadows.
Nothing.
Then I noticed the balcony railing.
The tea bags were not all positioned the same way.
Some appeared to have landed close to the building.
Others were several feet outward.
One had landed against the outer corner of the balcony.
I measured the distance using the tiles.
It was possible to throw a tea bag that far.
But it was awkward.
I tried standing in the same position and mimicking the motion with an old tissue.
The tissue landed short.
I tried again.
Short.
Again.
It still landed inside the central area.
I stopped.
That did not prove anything.
Wind could alter the path.
A person could throw differently.
The building's layout could distort what I thought I understood.
I put the tissue in the trash.
Then I heard footsteps above.
Emily.
I looked upward.
She was moving something across her balcony.
I called her name.
She leaned over.
"Morning!"
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Have you ever seen anything thrown from this building?"
She frowned.
"Like what?"
"Anything."
She thought.
"Not from upstairs."
"From outside?"
"Sometimes cigarette ends from the street. Not onto the balcony."
"Why?"
I hesitated.
"I received a strange letter."
She looked concerned.
"Are you in trouble?"
"No."
I told her only that I was trying to understand something that had happened before she moved in.
She nodded.
"I did notice something once."
"What?"
"A man across the street."
My stomach tightened.
"When?"
"Before I moved in."
"What did he look like?"
"I don't know. I only saw him from here."
"How many times?"
"Twice."
"Was he watching the building?"
"I thought so."
"Did you tell anyone?"
She shook her head.
"I assumed he was waiting for someone."
That was exactly the kind of ordinary explanation that allowed unusual things to remain invisible.
"Where did he stand?"
She pointed toward the far side of the street.
I knew the place.
There was a small café there.
"Did he have a car?"
"Maybe."
"What color?"
"Dark blue."
I wrote that down.
"Anything else?"
"He usually had a baseball cap."
"Did you see his face?"
"No."
I thanked her.
She looked uneasy.
"Margaret, what is this about?"
"I'm not sure yet."
That was the honest answer.
I called Peter again.
He listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he said, "That's useful."
"Useful enough to matter?"
"Possibly."
"You're being very careful."
"I have to be."
"Fair."
He told me the investigation concerned repeated incidents around Daniel's former apartment.
There had been no theft of valuables.
No obvious vandalism.
Instead, there were small disruptions.
A package opened and resealed.
A car moved.
A light left on.
Objects placed where they did not belong.
Nothing serious enough to trigger immediate intervention.
But enough to make Daniel believe someone was entering his life deliberately.
"Why would anyone do that?" I asked.
"We don't know."
"Did Daniel have enemies?"
"That's something we're trying to establish."
I thought about the man who had moved into 4B with plants and shopping bags.
"Not that I know of."
"Did he have financial problems?"
"No."
"Work-related disputes?"
"Not that I know."
"Relationship issues?"
I hesitated.
"Not that I know."
Peter thanked me.
Then he asked whether I had noticed anything before Daniel moved out.
I thought carefully.
"No."
Then I remembered.
"Actually."
"What?"
"There was a package."
"What package?"
"A small brown parcel. Daniel thought it was mine."
"When?"
"About a month before he moved."
"What happened?"
"It was left outside my door."
"Did you open it?"
"No."
"Where did it go?"
"I gave it to Daniel because his name was written underneath mine."
Peter paused.
"What was inside?"
"I don't know."
I suddenly wished I did.
I called Daniel.
He answered quickly.
"Margaret?"
"Do you remember a small brown package?"
Silence.
"Yes."
"What happened to it?"
"I opened it."
"What was inside?"
"A tea tin."
My stomach dropped.
"A tea tin?"
"Empty."
"Anything else?"
"A note."
"What did it say?"
"I don't remember exactly."
"Daniel."
He exhaled.
"It said, 'You keep looking in the wrong place.'"
I stared at the wall.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I thought it was part of the same thing."
"Did you keep the note?"
"No."
"Did you throw it away?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I was angry."
Of course.
He had thrown away the evidence because he had been angry.
I rubbed my forehead.
"Was the tea tin yours?"
"No."
"Did you recognize the brand?"
"Cheap black tea."
I looked at my kitchen shelf.
I rarely drank black tea.
Daniel did.
Or had.
That was when another thought surfaced.
The tea bags that had landed on my balcony.
The package.
The note.
The person across the street.
Could they be connected?
I refused to make the leap.
I told Peter about the package.
He became much more serious.
"Do you still have the envelope?"
"No."
"Any photographs?"
"I don't know."
I searched the old photographs on my phone.
There it was.
Not the package itself.
A photograph of the mail sitting on my kitchen counter.
I had taken it accidentally while photographing something else.
The brown parcel was visible in the corner.
I enlarged the image.
There was a shipping label.
The sender's name was almost unreadable.
But not completely.
I wrote down the letters.
Peter asked me to send it.
I did.
Then I waited.
Two hours later, he called.
"We found something."
"What?"
"The sender used a commercial mailbox."
"Can you identify them?"
"Not yet."
I gripped the phone.
"What does that mean?"
"It means someone went to enough trouble to hide the source."
I looked toward the balcony.
"Could it be the person watching Daniel?"
"Possibly."
"Could it be Daniel?"
"No."
The answer came too quickly.
"How do you know?"
"Because the mailbox was rented under a different name."
"Could someone have used a false name?"
"Yes."
"So we know nothing."
"We know more than we did yesterday."
That was frustratingly true.
I asked what I should do.
"Lock your balcony door."
"I already do."
"Keep doing it."
"Anything else?"
"If you notice someone outside, don't approach them."
"I won't."
"Call us."
I hung up.
The rest of the day passed slowly.
I kept looking through the glass door.
Every car sounded unfamiliar.
Every shadow seemed deliberate.
I hated that feeling.
It reminded me of the first time I had seen the tea bag land.
Only now I understood how quickly a harmless explanation could become inadequate.
That evening, I found a folded piece of paper beneath my apartment door.
No envelope.
No name.
Just six words.
Stop asking questions about 4B.
I stood completely still.
For a moment, I could hear nothing except my own breathing.
Then I locked the door.
I called Peter.
Then I called Daniel.
Neither answered immediately.
I took photographs of the note.
I did not touch it again.
Ten minutes later, Peter called back.
"Do not leave your apartment."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Have you contacted the police?"
"Not yet."
"I have."
That made my heart pound.
"Why?"
"Because this changes the situation."
I looked at the paper on the floor.
"Who is doing this?"
"We don't know."
"Then what am I supposed to do?"
"Wait for an officer."
I sat at the kitchen table.
The drawer containing my old complaint was only a few feet away.
I had once believed that complaint was the end of the problem.
Now it looked like the first piece of a puzzle I had never realized I was holding.
And somewhere above me, Emily's footsteps stopped.
The building went silent.
Then someone knocked on my door.
Three slow knocks.
I did not move.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: Three Knocks After Dark Changed the Meaning of Every Small Incident I Had Once Dismissed as Mere Bad Luck
The Small Brown Stain That Turned an Ordinary Morning Into a Problem I Could No Longer Ignore
Part 6 of 12
