“There are scuff marks on the latch,” Yelena whispered to herself, her heart hammering against her ribs. They definitely hadn’t been there when she moved in. She backed out of the closet slowly, grabbed her phone, and dialed the police emergency line, her voice flatter than she actually felt.
“I think someone is accessing my apartment through a maintenance panel,” she told the operator, trying to remain calm. She described the midnight scrapes, the missing food, and the tampered closet. The officer on the line was kind but unhurried. “Well, ma’am, since there are no signs of forced entry to your actual doors, we can’t send an emergency unit. We’ll dispatch someone for a property check soon.”
“Soon?” Yelena asked, her voice cracking. “Yes, ma’am, that’s the best we can do.” She thanked him and hung up. She spent the evening with every light on, a heavy kitchen chair wedged under the closet door handle, telling herself she could wait. She made it until just past one in the morning before the waiting became completely unbearable.