The True Owner of Morrison Garden Apartments Reclaims His Life and Legacy
It was an incoming call from an unknown Brooklyn number.
I hesitated, my finger hovering over the green answer button.
The lobby buzzer began to ring, a long, continuous whine that filled the apartment.
At the exact same moment, the phone in my hand vibrated with a second alert.
It was a notification from our shared security system.
The motion sensor in the boiler room had just been triggered.
Someone was down there with Carl.
I let the phone ring out.
The buzzer in the lobby stopped its long whine, leaving only the sound of my own quick breathing.
I stared at the security app on my screen, the red dot flashing over the basement blueprint.
I did not call Jake back.
Instead, I slipped my key ring into my pocket and pulled my wool cardigan tight around my shoulders.
The hallway outside my door was drafty and smelled of boiled cabbage from 2B.
I walked softly, keeping my back close to the painted brick wall.
The yellow bulbs overhead flickered, casting long, trembling shadows down the corridor.
As I passed Mrs. Patterson’s door, I heard her television murmuring inside.