I sat on one of my boxes because my legs had started shaking from fatigue.
Mateo remained in the hallway.
His men stood beside the abandoned moving cartons.
Eventually Mr.
Lynn returned.
His voice sounded different.
Smaller.
“I have the lease.”
“And?” Mateo asked.
“The equivalency language is there.”
“And the notice requirement?”
“Yes.”
“Was written notice delivered?”
A long pause.
“No.”
My fingers tightened around the edge of the box.
There it was.
Not a dramatic confession.
Not an explosion.
Just one quiet word confirming that I had not imagined the violation happening around me.
Mateo asked, “Was Ms.
Cruz ever presented with a written modification changing her unit from 4B to 4C?”
“No.”
“Did she sign one?”
“No.”
Mr.
Lynn rushed on.
“But ownership wanted the unit restructured immediately, and we believed the transfer clause gave us enough authority—”
“You believed wrong,” Mateo said.
The silence afterward was brutal.
I looked toward 4B.
The door was still open.
Inside, two of Mateo’s boxes sat near my old sofa, which maintenance had apparently left until the last trip.
The apartment looked caught between two lives.
Mine being erased.
His trying to begin.
Mateo put his phone back to his ear and stepped a few feet away.
His voice lowered.
I couldn’t hear every word, only fragments.
“Hold the move.”
“Existing tenancy.”
“Misrepresented possession.”
“Send someone tomorrow.”
He ended the call and returned.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“My attorney.”
Of course Mateo Falcone had an attorney available immediately.
I rubbed my forehead.
“What happens now?”
“To me?”
“To my apartment.”
He looked toward 4B.
“You stay in it.”
I stared at him.
Luca stared at him too, though he recovered faster.
“What?”
