The Lace Lingerie Mystery

After staying up all night to finish a task my boss had assigned, my phone buzzed with a message notification.

[Apartment 402, how many times have I told you not to hang your clothes out like that? Your lingerie fell onto my balcony! Ugh, lucky I was home; otherwise, my boyfriend and son would've seen it. That would've been so awkward!]

A photo followed right after, showing a black lace panty hanging precariously on the railing of the balcony of the third floor, swaying in the wind.

I stared at the picture for a moment, zooming in to inspect the details. After a closer look, I was certain it wasn't mine.

I didn't wear lace; besides, the size was clearly too big for me.

I replied, [Hi, are you sure this fell from my apartment? Maybe it was blown down from above.]

The response came almost immediately in the form of a voice message.

"Who else could it be if not you? The tenants from the fifth and sixth floors have moved out. Also, don't you young people know how to be a little more discreet? We've got a kid who has extra lessons tomorrow, and I'm working overtime. If you don't keep it down, I'll tape a speaker to the ceiling and see how you like that!"

I froze, a cold chill wrapping itself tightly around me as if it had a physical form, making me shiver involuntarily.

I looked around the hotel room before my eyes settled on the time displayed on my computer screen.

At that moment, I was over 600 miles away on a business trip.

The neighbor downstairs was notoriously petty. The last time my boyfriend, Milton Taylor, bought a shoe rack, he accidentally scratched their door, barely leaving a mark less than an inch long. That woman had marched to our door with a bucket of paint, threatening to splatter it all over the place unless we replaced their door.

I continued to listen to the string of voice messages from her.

I typed out my reply. [How can you be sure this is mine? Show me some proof, or I'll sue you for slander. My boyfriend works at Nexus International. It's a law firm. If you've got the guts, go ahead and ask him directly. He's not afraid of you. Their company's full of lawyers.]

Sure enough, the woman snapped. After a few seconds of verbal insults, she sent a final, venomous message.

[Fine! You shameless people! I'll send this filthy garment to your boyfriend's company tomorrow. You'd better be ready!]

[Go ahead. I'll be waiting!] I shot back before blocking her number, but there was no relief in my chest, only a heavy feeling.

I sat alone in the empty hotel room, the feeling in my chest like a tangled ball of yarn. Trying to unravel it hurt, but ignoring it was worse—like the kind of frustration that made me want to burst into tears.

I opened Milton's social media. His last post was about me.

[My girlfriend's eyelashes are so long and pretty. I hope my future children will take after her looks.]

I stared at it, tears welling up until my vision blurred. I wiped my eyes, forcing myself to stop.

I sent Milton a message.

[Babe, you're going to have to deal with some drama from the downstairs neighbor tomorrow.

[She somehow got her hands on a lingerie and insists it's mine. She probably thinks I'm a pushover.

[Don't worry. We're in the right, so there's nothing for us to be afraid of!]