Chapter 1

My downstairs neighbor reported me for disturbing the peace late at night.

I laughed it off coldly and told the property manager that I hadn't set foot in that apartment for three months, so there couldn't possibly be any noise coming from it.

They pulled the security footage and found that every night at ten, the lights in my unit came on without fail, and at two in the morning, they went off again.

The police eventually forced the door open. The place was empty, with no sign of anyone, but the sofa in the living room had been moved to a different spot every single day.

And the person on the tape, the one walking into my apartment night after night, had my exact silhouette, my exact build, and my exact way of moving.

*****

Mary Smith from downstairs called again. I swiped to answer, already irritated.

"Grace Quinn. What on earth is going on up there at night?" Mary's shrill voice pierced through the phone. "Dragging furniture across the floor in the dead of night. How is anyone supposed to sleep?"

I glanced at my watch. It was barely three in the afternoon, hardly the middle of the night.

I rubbed my throbbing temples. "Mary, I've been away on business for three months. There's nobody home."

"Nobody? So what, you have ghosts now?" Mary snapped, refusing to drop it. "I don't care. If I hear another sound tonight, I'm calling the police."

She hung up on me.

I tossed my phone aside and dismissed it as her usual nonsense.

This downtown apartment had been my parents' gift to me. The location was excellent, but the walls were paper-thin.

Mary had been complaining about me for three years straight.

She'd accuse me of stomping around or blasting the television at midnight. I was used to it by now.

But this time, I truly wasn't there.

I had worked at the branch office in the neighboring city for ninety-two days in a row. The apartment was empty.

I didn't think about her any longer and went back to my afternoon work.

At nine o'clock that night, an unknown local number called me. I assumed it was another spam call and rejected it without a second thought.

But the caller kept trying, over and over. I frowned and finally picked up.

"Am I speaking with Grace Quinn? This is the Westside Police Department."

The police? My heart stumbled. "Yes. What's going on?"

"We received a complaint from your downstairs neighbor. She says there's been continuous noise coming from your apartment, and it's becoming a serious disturbance," the officer explained.

It was Mary again. I let out a cold laugh. "Officer, there's been a misunderstanding. I've been on a business trip for three months. There's no one home."

"No one?" The officer paused, and his voice turned more alert. "But your neighbor insists your lights are on right now."

My stomach tightened. That was impossible. I flipped the main breaker before I left. "That can't be right."

"Ms. Quinn, we're at your building's security office right now," the officer said. "The staff here confirms that your lights have been turning on at ten o'clock every night and shutting off at two in the morning.

"This has been going on for nearly a month."

My head buzzed as if something had exploded inside me. A chill raced up from my feet to my scalp. "Can the cameras see my windows?"

"Yes. The plaza camera faces directly toward your living room window. I'm sending you a screenshot of the live feed now," the officer replied.

My phone buzzed. I opened the image. It was my building, the one I knew so well.

On the sixteenth floor, my apartment window blazed with a warm orange glow. It was so striking, almost as if someone calm and unhurried were inside, quietly waiting for a return.

My hands began to shake uncontrollably.

"Ms. Quinn, we recommend you come back as soon as possible," the officer said. "If your apartment is empty, this could be complicated."

*****

I ended the call and booked the next train back.

Two hours later, I stood outside the security office with my suitcase in tow.

Mary was already there, flanked by two police officers.

The officer in charge, William Carter, looked to be in his thirties. His expression was stern. "Are you Grace Quinn?"

I nodded.

"And you claim you have not been home for three months?"

"Yes. I have proof of my work assignment, attendance logs, and my train tickets." I handed over the documents.

Carter glanced through them and turned to the security guard. "Pull up the recordings."

The guard worked the computer, and the large monitor flickered to life, showing the footage from the previous night at ten o'clock.

My throat went dry. On the screen, the lights in Apartment 1602 clicked on at precisely ten.

Mary jabbed a finger at the monitor. "There! See? I told you. Right on schedule."

Carter silenced her with a look, then addressed the guard once more. "Go back through the past month.

"Check the entrance, the elevator, and the hallway cameras. See if anyone besides Ms. Quinn accessed that apartment."

The guard navigated the files.

The four of us watched the screen intently, the footage advancing in fast motion. There was nothing at all.

Aside from the cleaning crew sweeping the corridor once a week, not a single soul approached my door.