What the fuck?
I sit up straight and set my mug on the table with a clink so I can lean in to better see the room.
Yep. Empty couch. Empty room. No Hannah.
Steam rolls down the hallway, and from the speakers hidden in the heating vent high on the wall I hear the shower running.
In my defense, I didn’t install the hidden camera and microphone in her apartment, the one down the hall from mine. That was the previous owner of the building, Mr. Ropper. He put cameras in all six apartments that make up this converted brownstone on the Upper East Side of New York.
He claimed it was because he was worried about “drug activity.”
That was a lie.
He was either deeply nosy or an outright pervert. Possibly both. Still, I’ll give him credit where it’s due. There are no cameras in the bedrooms or bathrooms. Only the living rooms.
I checked.Thoroughly.
When I bought the building from him, I considered removing the cameras.
But then I realized they were…useful.
A way to keep an eye on things. To make sure everyone was safe. Fed. Warm. Alive.
I hadn’t added any cameras. I also hadn’t removed them. That felt like a compromise.
The tenants don’t know I’m their landlord. To them, I’m just the quiet guy in 4B. Polite. Invisible. Easily ignored. This suits me fine. The other people who share this space are best appreciated from a distance.
Four of the six apartments are occupied by the elderly, three silver-haired women and one balding man named Mr. Jones, who insists on jogging in place while watching the Weather Channel. He told Ms. Whittle it’s for cardio. I think it might be anxiety.
While I wait for Hannah to finish her shower, I quickly toggle through the other camera feeds.
Mrs. Sewart is wearing her thick crocheted sweater, the purple one with the uneven sleeves that she made last winter. That usually means she forgot to pay her heating bill. Again.
I check Hannah’s living room. Still empty.
With a sigh, I log into Mrs. Sewart’s utility account, and, sure enough, it’s in the negative. I pay off the balance with a few simple clicks.
You’re welcome.
I don’t interact with my tenants. I don’t knock on doors. I don’t attend building meetings. I don’t even make eye contact in the hallway if I can help it.
But I know when their smoke detector batteries are low.
When their prescriptions lapse.
Who needs groceries delivered before they admit it.
Noise from Hannah’s feed draws my attention. Her hair dryer is running, but I still can’t see her. Tension curls in my chest, tightening it. My hands clench into fists on my desk.
What’s she doing?
Hannah shouldn’t be getting ready to go out tonight. She should be on her couch with her black-and-white cat Mr. Wiggles curled on her lap. I glance over at the half-empty cat water and food bowls that sit in the corner of my room, next to my in-home gym with my free weights all neatly arranged.
When I look back at the screen, my jaw drops.
Hannah has just stepped out of the bathroom looking more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her, which is saying something, because I think she’s beautiful all the time. She wears a tight red dress with matching heels. Her hair is curled. Her cheeks shimmer pink, and her lips are glossy, reflecting the light like a disco ball.
Wow.
