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Lissa (Unit: 815): Let’s extend grace. Bad weeks happen.
Stanley (Unit: 1007): Anyone figure out who knocked out the mailroom light last Tuesday? It was making it really hard for me to see the mail at night.
Rita Fortune: We are still trying to figure that out. We’re also going to install security cameras in the mailroom so we can monitor it more closely.
Stanley (Unit: 1007): I don’t think security cameras need to be in the mailroom. That feels very invasive. Very, very invasive. It’s a bad idea, Rita. Very bad idea. It would put the mail under so much pressure.
Rita Fortune: Safety is priority, Stanley. Anything that promotes safety is a good idea.
Shane (Unit: 1807): I think the mailroom light issue is because of me. Stopped in for my mail with a new rug and questionable spatial awareness in tow. Sorry, everyone.
Rita Fortune: Noted, Mr. Maddox. Please exercise greater caution around fixtures and shared property. A violation and fine will be issued accordingly.
Stanley (Unit: 1007): So . . . that means we don’t need security cameras in the mailroom, right? Shane just said he’s the one that broke the light so there’s really no need for the cameras anymore.
Rita Fortune: Stanley, that is not up for discussion. I will do my due diligence as your President and make the decision based off Magnolia Condos’ thorough safety rules and regulations.
Rita Fortune: Let’s all focus our energy on ending this day with being mindful and respectful of our beautiful building and fully motivated to prevent another dangerous wildlife incident from occurring here again. Make sure all trash bags are properly sealed.
Dangerous wildlife incident? With the way she’s talking, you’d think I invited a family of grizzly bears to a barbecue.
I grit my teeth and log in to the Magnolia Condos payment portal. I donate my fifty bucks to the Rita Fortune Church of Community Excellence—a.k.a. Magnolia HOA—and close my app and condo door behind me with a sigh.
When I pick up my phone again, there’s one last notification.
Shane (Unit: 1807): Not to challenge the HOA Constitution, but I tried The Hole Story the other morning and I have a feeling those heavenly bagels are probably the only thing keeping half of us in the building civil in the morning. Feels harsh to penalize the woman responsible for that kind of public service, Rita. Maybe you should give Valentina a break on this one.
But it doesn’t stay the last one for long.
Rita Fortune: Mr. Maddox, I cannot, in good conscience, make exceptions to HOA violations. It would go against my moral compass, and I would be letting the entire building down by not living up to the incredible responsibility of being our HOA president.
Shane (Unit: 1807): Totally understand. In that case, feel free to roll her citation into the new one I’m getting for the mailroom light. Happy to consolidate.
Rita Fortune: Mr. Maddox, I will not entertain this conversation any further.
I huff out a laugh despite myself.
Who even is this guy? And why the heck has he made defending me—even at the cost of getting on Rita’s bad side—his number-one job?
9
Shane
Thursday, October 7
4:20 p.m.
Four in the afternoon the day after sleuthing finds me standing in the hallway outside Unit 1707 with a big box tucked under my arm. I knock once, then twice, and adjust my grip on the very neighborly gift I’m hoping smooths over the raccoon incident without an admission of guilt.
The job is always going to come with casualties of war, but none of them have ever made me feel as bad as getting Valentina written up on a garbage protocol breach.
I hold my breath as the door swings open, and upon seeing her, every stupid thought flies right out of my head. Her hair is pulled into a loose knot that looks like it gave up halfway through the day, and a soft pink sweater slips off one shoulder. Her keys are already in her hand like she’s just about to head somewhere—something a detective should be taking copious note of—but all I can seem to focus on is her skin.
Soft. Supple. Olive toned and smooth like butter.
“Oh. Hi,” she says in greeting. It’s warm but distracted.
“Hi,” I reply, pointing to my chest with my free hand like a numbnuts. “Shane. From 1807.”
