balcony and then collapsed. But from what? The frat boys were too young for a heart attack. A drug overdose, maybe? Or else, drunk. That was more likely.
She took off her gloves and fumbled in her purse until she located a small flashlight. “Hello?” she called out, shining the spotlight upward. What she saw made her gasp. Two sad, dark eyes peered down at her. “Anni?” she said. “Is that you?” The dog whined in response. In the light of the flashlight beam she saw that the dog was chained to one of the balcony posts. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Who would leave a dog chained up outside in the cold?
Andrea snapped off the light and located the back door key. Once inside, she walked down the hallway, passing the doorways of the downstairs tenants. The frat boy had been right about the smell of weed coming from the lower apartment, not that she cared all that much. She passed the mailboxes embedded in the wall near the front door and turned to go up the stairs. Her heart pounded as she climbed the steps.
One of the stair treads was broken, the board actually missing, which could only mean that someone had removed it. Under normal circumstances, Andrea would have made a note to have Stan come out to fix it, but she was too angry for that. A broken stair was fine for animal abusers. Too good for them, actually. That poor dog. With her big sad eyes and beaten-down demeanor, the dog looked like one of the pets in the commercial to raise money for an animal rights group. Someone should chain the frat boys to the balcony out in the cold. Then they’d know how it felt.
Andrea rapped on the door three times, waited a few seconds, then pounded with the side of her fist. “Hello!” she shouted. “Anyone there?” No answer. She expected others in the building to come see what was going on, or at the very least, open their doors to listen, but there was no movement in the building as far as she could tell. She tried again, knocking and yelling, “Open up.” But still nothing.
Disappointed, she realized they must not be home. And just when she was ready to tell them off too. Andrea glanced down at the letter. The envelope looked official. She’d made sure of that. She could prop it up against the door or leave it in the mailbox, then contact the authorities to report an abused dog at this address. How long would it take for the crime to be investigated? Soon enough to get Anni out of the cold? It was after office hours: Would that make a difference? Probably, she decided, although she really didn’t know for sure. She looked down again and realized that right in her hand, along with the envelope, was a key ring holding a key for every apartment in the building, each of them labeled in Andrea’s own neat handwriting. Unit number four happened to be right on top. Without making a conscious decision, she inserted the key into the lock and turned it. When she heard a click, she turned the knob and the door swung open. A sign. If she really wasn’t meant to open the door, the frat boys would have installed a dead bolt, and she wouldn’t have been able to get in.
She flipped on the light switch and the living room came into view: sagging couch with a dark-green blanket draped across the top, a coffee table littered with beer cans and assorted snack bags, dirty linoleum floor covered with clothing and what looked like crushed potato chips. Yuck. And the place smelled too, like cigarette smoke and poop. Looking oddly out of place was a whopping big-screen TV, one of the largest Andrea had ever seen. “Hello?” she called out, closing the door behind her.
Being in someone’s apartment without permission felt all kinds of wrong—but it was exhilarating too. What was she doing here? With her back flat against the door, she felt her heart pounding. What would she say if one of them came out of the bedroom right now? She could run, and if they didn’t catch her, they’d have no way of tracing her. Unless
She took off her gloves and fumbled in her purse until she located a small flashlight. “Hello?” she called out, shining the spotlight upward. What she saw made her gasp. Two sad, dark eyes peered down at her. “Anni?” she said. “Is that you?” The dog whined in response. In the light of the flashlight beam she saw that the dog was chained to one of the balcony posts. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Who would leave a dog chained up outside in the cold?
Andrea snapped off the light and located the back door key. Once inside, she walked down the hallway, passing the doorways of the downstairs tenants. The frat boy had been right about the smell of weed coming from the lower apartment, not that she cared all that much. She passed the mailboxes embedded in the wall near the front door and turned to go up the stairs. Her heart pounded as she climbed the steps.
One of the stair treads was broken, the board actually missing, which could only mean that someone had removed it. Under normal circumstances, Andrea would have made a note to have Stan come out to fix it, but she was too angry for that. A broken stair was fine for animal abusers. Too good for them, actually. That poor dog. With her big sad eyes and beaten-down demeanor, the dog looked like one of the pets in the commercial to raise money for an animal rights group. Someone should chain the frat boys to the balcony out in the cold. Then they’d know how it felt.
Andrea rapped on the door three times, waited a few seconds, then pounded with the side of her fist. “Hello!” she shouted. “Anyone there?” No answer. She expected others in the building to come see what was going on, or at the very least, open their doors to listen, but there was no movement in the building as far as she could tell. She tried again, knocking and yelling, “Open up.” But still nothing.
Disappointed, she realized they must not be home. And just when she was ready to tell them off too. Andrea glanced down at the letter. The envelope looked official. She’d made sure of that. She could prop it up against the door or leave it in the mailbox, then contact the authorities to report an abused dog at this address. How long would it take for the crime to be investigated? Soon enough to get Anni out of the cold? It was after office hours: Would that make a difference? Probably, she decided, although she really didn’t know for sure. She looked down again and realized that right in her hand, along with the envelope, was a key ring holding a key for every apartment in the building, each of them labeled in Andrea’s own neat handwriting. Unit number four happened to be right on top. Without making a conscious decision, she inserted the key into the lock and turned it. When she heard a click, she turned the knob and the door swung open. A sign. If she really wasn’t meant to open the door, the frat boys would have installed a dead bolt, and she wouldn’t have been able to get in.
She flipped on the light switch and the living room came into view: sagging couch with a dark-green blanket draped across the top, a coffee table littered with beer cans and assorted snack bags, dirty linoleum floor covered with clothing and what looked like crushed potato chips. Yuck. And the place smelled too, like cigarette smoke and poop. Looking oddly out of place was a whopping big-screen TV, one of the largest Andrea had ever seen. “Hello?” she called out, closing the door behind her.
Being in someone’s apartment without permission felt all kinds of wrong—but it was exhilarating too. What was she doing here? With her back flat against the door, she felt her heart pounding. What would she say if one of them came out of the bedroom right now? She could run, and if they didn’t catch her, they’d have no way of tracing her. Unless
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