Chapter 1

The email came in that morning, which meant I read it while standing in my kitchen in one sock, waiting for my coffee machine to stop sounding like it was choking.

The subject line was:

IMPORTANT RESIDENT SAFETY NOTICE

That usually meant the elevator was broken again, or someone had left chicken bones in the laundry room sink, or the landlord had discovered a new way to blame us for the mold. But this one was different.

Dear Residents,

Until further notice, please do not use your door viewer/peephole after 9:00 PM. If someone knocks after this time, please call the front desk. Do not visually confirm through the peephole.

Thank you,

The Marwick Residences

I sent a screenshot to Natalie.

She replied:

girl what kind of Scooby Doo ass building do you live in

The Marwick is old in the way landlords call “historic” when, in reality, they just want to charge more. My hallway smells like dust, carpet cleaner, and something that might have been canned soup in 1987. The elevator makes a sound like it is remembering a traumatic event every time it reaches the fourth floor, if it ever makes it there.

So, honestly, the peephole thing barely made the top five.

I live alone in 6C. It’s my first apartment after college. One pan, two mugs, couch from Facebook Marketplace, mattress on an actual bed frame(!!!).

My front door faces a long beige hallway with five other units and a framed sailboat print that has been crooked since I moved in. Through the peephole, the hallway bends into a little fish-eye world: carpet, elevator, sailboat, the occasional neighbor holding takeout.

I use the peephole constantly. Everyone does, right? You hear a knock, you look. That is what the peephole is for?

At 9:42 that night, someone knocked.

Three taps.

Soft.

It didn’t sound like a delivery knock. Nor a friendly knock. Not even a maintenance knock.

Three carefully spaced-out taps.

I was on the couch eating cereal out of a measuring cup because my bowls were dirty. I paused my show and walked to the door with the spoon still in my hand.

Then I remembered the email.

For a second, I actually laughed. The idea of standing inside my own apartment and being afraid of a peephole felt really silly. Like being warned not to look into a mirror after midnight.

Another knock.

Three taps.

I said, “Who is it?”

No answer.

I leaned closer.

“Hello?”

Still nothing.

My eye was maybe two inches from the peephole when my phone buzzed.

Another email with the same subject line.

IMPORTANT RESIDENT SAFETY NOTICE

This one said:

Residents are reminded not to use their door viewers after 9:00 PM. If you have already looked tonight, remain inside your unit and do not answer the door.

I stared at it.

Then, from the other side of my door, someone whispered:

“Don’t worry, you haven’t looked yet.”

I backed up so fast I hit the little table by the door and knocked my keys to the floor.

I called the front desk. Voicemail. I called Natalie. No answer.

The knocking started again while the phone rang.

Three taps.

Pause.

Three taps.

Pause.

I called 911. I don’t know what happened. I might’ve hit the wrong thing. Maybe the building’s intercom app glitched. My hands were definitely shaking too much. But the call connected to the front desk.

A woman answered. “Good evening, thank you for calling The Marwick Residences.” Her voice sounded normal and bored.

“There’s someone outside my door,” I said.

“What unit?”

“6C.”

A pause.

Then she said, “Have you used your peephole tonight?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

The knocking stopped.

The woman exhaled.

“Then don’t start now,” she said.

“What’s going on?”

“Do you live alone?”

I always hated that question.

“Why?”

“Do you live alone?”

I didn’t answer.

There was paper shuffling on her end, like she was looking through a folder.

Then she said, “Please move away from your door.”

“Who’s out there?”

“Maintenance has been notified.”

“At night? It’s almost ten.”

“Please move away from your door.”

“What’s the maintenance code?”

Silence.

Every work order in our building had a code. They used it for everything. Leaky sink. Broken outlet. That one time a raccoon got into the trash room.

Maintenance always gave the code before entering.

The woman said, “Excuse me?”

“The work order code,” I said. “If maintenance is coming, what’s the code?”

Another pause. Then she hung up.

That was when Natalie called me back.

Before I could say anything, she said, “Are you home right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you lock your bedroom door?”

My stomach dropped.

“What? Why?”

“Is your bedroom door locked?”

“No. Why?”

“I need you to listen. And try not to freak out. I got pictures from your number.”

I looked at my phone. Our text thread was open. The last thing I had sent her was the screenshot of the email that morning.

“What pictures?”

“They look really old,” she said. “Like from earlier today. Or yesterday. I don’t know. They show you in your room.”

I turned toward my bedroom.

Its door was open.

The room was dark except for the streetlight bleeding through the blinds.

“From my room?” My voice rose at the last word.

“I know,” she said.

My phone buzzed.

A picture came through.

Me, standing beside my bed in an old T-shirt, folding laundry.

The angle was high.

I knew it immediately. It was from the vent. The picture was taken from the little square vent above my closet door. The one that rattled whenever the heat came on. The one I had complained about twice to management. In the picture, I was looking down at a skirt. I had no idea I was being watched.

The knock came again.

Three taps.

I almost threw the phone.

Natalie said, “Marie. Don’t open the door.”

“I’m definitely not going to open the door.”

“Don’t look through the peephole either.”

“I know.”

“No,” she said. “I mean don’t. I think that’s how they know.”

I looked at the door. The peephole was just a small dark dot.

Natalie said, “The pictures are old. But the texts you’re sending me are live.”

“What do you mean?”

Another image came through.

My bedroom again.

Me asleep. One arm under the pillow. Blanket kicked halfway off because my apartment is always too hot.

Taken from the vent.

Below the photo was a message I hadn’t typed.

she’s home

I stopped breathing.

Outside my door, a man said, “Maintenance.”

His voice was calm, tired, and slightly irritated.

“Ma’am,” he said. “We need to come in.”

I said nothing.

He knocked again.

Three taps.

“Ma’am, I need you to look through the peephole and confirm it’s me.”

Natalie whispered, “Please don’t open it.”

I pressed the phone to my ear so hard it hurt.

The man outside sighed.

“Marie,” he said, “you live alone. You need to let someone help you.”

I went cold.

Marie isn’t on my lease. It isn’t on my mailbox. It isn’t the name I use for deliveries, or bills, or maintenance requests.

It isn’t even close to my real name.

It’s a nickname from college. Three people call me that, and all three of them know better than to say it through a locked door at night.

“Marie,” he repeated. “Open the door.”

I backed away from the door.

That was when I understood the warning.

It wasn’t because the peephole was specifically dangerous. It was because if you looked through it, whoever was outside could see the light change. Or the shadow of your eye. Or whatever tiny movement told them someone was standing on the other side. They weren’t warning us not to open the door. They were warning us not to prove we were home.

The man outside said, “We can hear you.”

I covered my mouth with my hand.

Another man spoke from farther down the hall.

“Is she looking?”

The first man said, “Not yet.”

My phone buzzed again. Another picture.

This one was not of my bedroom, it was my hallway, my door, the man outside it.

He had a toolbox in one hand.

Behind him stood two other men. One wore a dark hoodie. One had a clipboard. The clipboard bothered me the most. I don’t know why. Maybe because it made the whole thing look official.

I whispered, “Natalie, could you call the police?”

“I did.”

“When?”

“Two minutes ago.”

“How far?”

“I don’t know.”

There was another knock.

Three taps.

Then the man said, “Don’t make this difficult.”

The doorknob turned slowly. Once to the left. Once to the right. Then it stopped.

I had locked it, with the deadbolt too. I’d never loved myself more than I did in that moment.

The man outside said, “Good girl.” Like he was pleased, then something metal slid into the lock.

I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a chair, wedging it under the knob even though I knew that mostly worked in movies. Then I dragged the little table over. Then my laundry basket. Then the broken floor lamp I kept meaning to throw away.

The man outside said, “Marie.”

I didn’t answer.

“I know you’re scared.”

I stayed quiet.

“That’s okay,” he said. “Women get scared.”

My skin went cold.

Then he said:

“You should’ve just looked when we knocked.”

The lock clicked. Not all the way. Just enough.

Natalie was crying now.

“Marie, get out the window.”

“I’m on the sixth floor.”

“Fire escape?”

“Other side of the building.”

“Bedroom window?”

“No.”

I looked toward my bedroom. The vent above the closet was dark. I had never noticed how much it looked like a mouth.

My phone buzzed again. Another picture. This one showed my bedroom from the vent. Empty bed. Open door.

And at the very bottom of the frame, just visible in the hallway mirror, the reflection of a man standing inside my apartment.

I turned around. No one. Nothing. Only the hallway. Only the bedroom door. Only the vent.

The man outside laughed softly.

Then he said, through the door:

“Check the closet.”

I am not checking the closet.

I am sitting with my back against the kitchen cabinets, typing this with one hand while holding a knife in the other. My hand is shaking so badly that I keep hitting the wrong letters.

The police are coming, I think?

Natalie is still on the phone, I think?

The men in the hallway have stopped knocking.

A few minutes ago, something small slid under my door.

A photograph.

Not digital this time, but printed. I haven’t touched it, but I can see it from here.

It’s a picture of me sitting exactly where I am sitting now. Back against the cabinets. Phone in one hand. Knife in the other. The angle is from above.

From the kitchen vent.

I picked it up. On the back, written in black marker, are six words.

“You locked him in with you.”