Section 1: Description of Complaint.
I uncap a pen and start writing:Regular thumping sounds emanating from building structure. Frequency: every 12 seconds. Duration: ongoing since approximately 10:30 AM. Volume: increasingly loud, causing vibrations throughout flat.
THUD.
The pen skips across the paper. Even my handwriting's being affected.
Section 2: Parties Involved.
I view the blank lines. What am I supposed to write?Unknown entity causing mysterious building percussion?
THUD.
The coffee table shifts slightly. My laptop slides an inch closer to the edge.
I write:Source unknown. Not attributed to any specific resident.
Section 3: Previous Attempts at Resolution.
Contacted leasing office. Spoke with reception staff. No resolution offered.
THUD.
This is pointless. Even if I complete the form, even if someone actually reads it, what's going to happen? They'll schedule a mediation session with a building?
But it's documentation. Evidence that I'm not imagining things. When Detective Inspector Lowery calls again—and she will call again—I'll have proof that I reported the disturbances through proper channels.
THUD.
A new text message arrives.
Maya, this is DI Lowery again. We need to meet today. There have been developments.
Text back:What kind of developments?
THUD.
The response comes quickly:We can discuss that in person. Are you at home now?
A chill runs down my spine. How does she know where I live?
THUD.
I type:How did you get my address?
No response.
THUD.
The sound's changed rhythm.
CHAPTER 2
URSAK
"KEDVES SZERELMEM..."
The Hungarian syllables roll through my chest like distant thunder. Precise. Controlled. Each vowel given its proper weight, each consonant articulated with the care my professors demanded at Budapest University twenty years ago.
