Eleven years in the same apartment building teaches you things.
You learn which stair creaks when the temperature drops.
Which couple argues every Sunday morning.
Who gets groceries delivered on Thursdays.
Which resident practices the same instrument badly enough that, after several years, you can confidently confirm there has been absolutely no improvement.
Eleven years is long enough to become part of the building.
I was Margaret Collier.
Apartment 3B.
I was the woman people trusted with spare keys.
The neighbor who signed for packages.
The person new tenants asked when they couldn’t find the recycling bins.
I knew where the maintenance forms were kept because I’d actually read them.
And in eleven years, I’d never had a serious dispute with another resident.
I paid my rent.
Watched people’s pets.
Watered plants when neighbors traveled.
Accepted deliveries.
I was reasonable.
Dependable.
Predictable.
Then Daniel Hartley moved into 4B and apparently
