I didn’t wait to see if he would get back up. I bolted past him, my socks slipping on the scattered soil on the floor, and lunged out the open front door. I sprinted down the hallway, my bare feet pounding against the carpeted stairs as I flew down to the lobby.

I didn’t stop running until I burst through the heavy front doors of the building and into the bright, blinding light of the busy public street outside.

I collapsed onto the sidewalk outside a neighboring coffee shop, sobbing hysterically as onlookers rushed to help me. Someone called the police, and within ten minutes, three patrol cars pulled up to the building with their sirens wailing.

When the officers searched the building, they didn’t just find the basement receiver Clara had written about. In the hidden crawlspaces behind the drywall of my apartment and Clara’s old unit, they discovered an entire network of wires, lenses, and recording equipment that had been active for years.

Mr. Vance was arrested on the spot, led out of the courtyard in handcuffs while glaring at me with an expression of pure, unadulterated hatred.
I never spent another night in that apartment. The police helped me escort a moving crew the very next day to throw my belongings into a truck, and I broke my lease without a single penny of penalty.

It took me months of therapy to stop checking the corners of every room I walked into, and to this day, I can’t look at a houseplant without feeling a cold shiver run down my spine. Clara saved my life by leaving that peace lily behind, but the horror of what was hidden in the soil is something I will carry with me forever.