Page 41 of Levee

Only they weren’t drawn on with the dry-erase marker. It was permanent.

On a grumble, I ripped the whole board off the door, not even caring at the spot of chipped paint that came away when I didn’t remove the peel-and-stick strip properly.

Unlocking my door, I rushed inside, going straight to the kitchen to toss the board.

I was a second away from dropping it when I realized what it was. Evidence.

Graphology was the study of handwriting. And they used that kind of thing to compare known samples if, you know, something happened to me.

As much as I didn’t ever want to look at it again, I brought it with me into my bedroom, slipping it into my top drawer where I figured it would be easily found if it came to that.

I shoved the whole bag of groceries into the fridge, all thoughts of cooking abandoned as the fear I’d been trying to tamp down came rushing back to the surface.

I slid my locks and put the alarm under my door. I closed the curtains. I sat in complete and utter silence, paranoid that I wouldn’t be able to hear someone coming.

But even if I did, what good would it do? There was only one way out of my apartment. If they came in that exit, I was trapped. Completely at their mercy. Up this high, I couldn’t even get one of those escape ladders to throw out my window.

I was a sitting duck.

My memory flashed back to the encounter with Mr. Booth in the courtyard, trying to remember who was close enough to have overheard my concern about my upstairs neighbor.

I hadn’t been paying much attention. The area was always relatively busy. People came and went constantly. And then, well, there were the people making a living by standing around and waiting for other people to come to them. Little drug deals with out there in the broad daylight.

Anyone could have heard.

Or Mr. Booth could even have mentioned something to someone while working on another task.

Who knew how they found out that I was asking around about my neighbor. All I did know was that they knew. And they weren’t happy about it.

Logic told me to go to the police. To tell them about the sounds, the signs of a struggle, the blood on the floor, the men I’d seen and heard, the threat on my whiteboard.

But aside from the whiteboard, I had no proof of… anything. And I imagined the whiteboard could be brushed off as just some neighbor who thought I was watching their comings and goings or something.

This was an area that had a lot of real crimes going on almost right under the police’s nose. They wouldn’t appreciate me bothering them without proof.

Besides, I wouldn’t have to be involved at all if Mr. Booth found what I found in the apartment.

I just had to be patient.

I sat all day, fiddling with sketches for Zayn’s commission because it was silly and fun, nothing that required a lot of concentration on my part as I waited for what felt like ages before I finally heard a knock on the door a floor above mine.

“7D?” Mr. Booth called. “7D, open up. Got a call about some noises,” he called, and I couldn’t help but wonder if his voice was always so loud or if I was just being hyperaware. “I’m coming in,” he called, and I heard a jingle of keys.

Then I heard footsteps walking into the apartment, then back out.

A slam.

Footsteps retreating.

But not… hurried.

Before I could even consider what I was doing, I rushed out of my apartment, taking the elevator down to the main level where I could ‘just so happen’ to run into Mr. Booth again and casually ask if he’d dropped in yet.

“6D,” he said, looking taken aback at seeing me at the mailboxes.

“Oh, hey again, Mr. Booth. Long day, huh?” I asked.

“They usually are,” he said, nodding.

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