“There’s a cat.”
Silence.
Roger closed his eyes.
“Yes, I know how that sounds.”
Darren laughed once.
“Start again.”
Roger explained.
Hector.
Two years.
Missing today.
Found outside 561.
Scratching.
Crying.
Nobody answering.
Darren became serious.
“561 is Beatrice Albright.”
“You know her?”
“Quiet lady.”
“Late seventies, maybe.”
“Lives alone?”
“Yes.”
“Has anyone seen her?”
Darren hesitated.
“I saw her getting mail two days ago.”
“Nothing since?”
“I don’t know.”
Roger looked at Hector.
The cat had resumed pacing.
“Bring your master key.”
“You think something happened?”
“I think the cat thinks something happened.”
That sentence sounded ridiculous.
Darren did not laugh.
“I’ll be there.”
“How long?”
“I’m in the maintenance room.”
“Five minutes.”
It took eight.
During those eight minutes, Hector never left the door.
Roger knocked three more times.
No answer.
He thought about calling emergency services immediately.
Then worried he was overreacting.
Then looked at Hector.
The cat had spent two years demonstrating an obsession with schedule.
If he had abandoned his own 4:15 appointment to sit screaming outside this door, something had changed.
Frank Delaney came out of apartment 548 while Roger waited.
Frank was sixty-nine, large, broad-shouldered, and still carried himself like the firefighter he had been before retirement.
“What’s all the noise?”
Roger pointed at Hector.
Frank stared.
“That cat yours?”
“Long story.”
Hector scratched the door again.
Roger explained quickly.
Frank’s expression changed.
“Beatrice lives there.”
“You know her?”
“Enough to say hello.”
Frank approached the door.
“Mrs. Albright?”
He knocked with the side of his fist.
“Beatrice?”
Nothing.
Frank looked at Roger.
“When did anyone last see her?”
“Darren said two days ago.”
Frank tried the handle.
Locked.
A young woman came from apartment 555.
She had earbuds hanging around her neck and held a phone.
“What’s happening?”
Frank said:
“Possibly nothing.”
Roger looked at Hector.
“Possibly not.”
The woman introduced herself as Maya Chen.
Roger realized he had seen her in the elevator perhaps twenty times.
He had never learned her name.
Darren finally appeared carrying a ring of keys.
“What happened?”
Frank said:
“No response.”
Darren stepped toward the door.
“Mrs. Albright?”
He knocked loudly.
“This is Darren, building superintendent.”
No answer.
“I’m entering for a welfare check.”
Still nothing.
Darren looked at Frank.
Frank nodded.
The master key turned.
The lock clicked.
Hector immediately moved forward.
Darren blocked him with one foot.
“Hold him.”
Roger bent down and managed to keep Hector back.
The door opened.
The apartment was dark.
Heavy curtains covered the windows.
A lamp near the sofa was on.
The television played quietly.
Some afternoon talk show.
Nobody moved.
“Beatrice?”
Darren stepped inside.
Frank followed.
Roger stayed near the doorway holding Hector.
Then Frank said:
“Oh God.”
Roger’s stomach dropped.
He stepped forward.
Beatrice Albright lay on the kitchen floor.
She was curled partly onto one side, one arm bent awkwardly beneath her.
A ceramic mug lay shattered nearby.
A bruise darkened her temple.