You don't belong in a high-end historical building like this, my landlord’s fiancée, Vanessa Crawford, sneered as she dumped a glass of $350 Moët & Chandon champagne directly over my head.
I stood on the polished stone steps of the Sweet Auburn brownstone, the cool Atlanta air biting at my exposed arms. My shoulders hunched against the chill. The door Brandon had opened for me just moments earlier was now sealed shut, his voice a distant echo.
I tried my keycard again. Still nothing. The heavy brass handle remained locked tight.
It wasn’t a malfunction. It was deliberate.
After what felt like an hour, but was probably only ten minutes, I heard footsteps inside. An older woman, Mrs. Henderson from the third floor, struggled with a large bag of groceries, fumbling with her own keycard.
She finally got the door open, her brow furrowed in concentration. She glanced at me, a flicker of recognition in her eyes, then a slight nod.
“Having trouble, dear?” she asked, her voice raspy.
“Just a moment,” I replied, trying to sound normal. I slipped inside quickly before she could close the heavy door.
The familiar scent of old wood and beeswax filled the hall. My apartment door stood ahead, a beacon of sorts. As I approached, I saw it.
A bright yellow legal notice was taped directly over my peephole. It stated, in bold black letters, that I had missed a court-mandated pre-trial conference. The date: last Monday.
But I hadn’t received any notice. My legal aid attorney hadn’t mentioned anything.
My hands trembled as I peeled the paper from the wood. It felt like a trap, carefully set.
Just then, Brandon appeared from the stairwell. He wore a crisp blue button-down, his dark hair perfectly styled. His expression was neutral, almost serene.
He glanced at the notice in my hand. “Oh, Maya,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Another one?”
My mouth went dry. “I never received any notification for this, Brandon.”
He sighed, a long, weary sound. “That’s why I suggested you start keeping a daily log. A notebook, perhaps?”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, concerned tone. “Your memory, Maya. It’s becoming… concerning. For Amara, especially.”
“My memory is fine,” I said, my voice tight.
“Is it?” he asked, his gaze unwavering. “Are you sure? We don’t want Amara worrying about you, do we? About your mental state?”
From my doorway, Amara stood, a small shadow. Her eyes, usually bright and full of questions, were narrowed, fixed on Brandon. She said nothing, but her small shoulders were tense.
He hadn’t seen her, standing there in the dim hallway, absorbing every word.
“Just think about it,” Brandon said, his voice softening again. “For her sake. Let me know if you need help finding a good notebook.”
He turned, walking away toward his own office, leaving the echo of his words hanging in the air. Amara remained frozen in the doorway, her silent presence a testament to his cruelty.
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