The Girl in Apartment 4B

M Mehran

The first thing Officer Lena Hale noticed about Apartment 4B was the silence. Not the normal kind—the heavy, suffocating kind that felt staged. Manufactured.

She knocked again.

“Police. Ms. Carter, are you inside?”

No answer.

A neighbor had called dispatch an hour earlier, reporting “terrifying screams” from 4B, followed by a crash. Domestic dispute, maybe. Break-in, possibly. In this building? Very likely.

Lena tested the doorknob. Locked.

“4B, this is your last warning.”

Still nothing.

She slid her pick from her belt—old-school tool, but faster than waiting for backup—and worked the lock. The door clicked open.

The smell hit her first.

Bleach. Sharp and recent.

“Ms. Carter?” she called, stepping inside.

The apartment was immaculate. Too immaculate. A couch perfectly aligned with the rug. A coffee mug washed and turned upside-down to dry. A half-finished jigsaw puzzle on the table—blue sky, white sailboat—each piece arranged with almost obsessive care.

Normal on the surface. Wrong underneath.

Her radio buzzed: “Unit 12, backup in ten minutes.”

“Copy,” Lena murmured.

She moved deeper into the apartment.

Photos lined the hallway—portraits of a woman in her early thirties, smiling. Camille Carter. Teacher, single, never caused trouble. The kind of person neighbors described with words like “sweet” and “quiet” and “kept to herself.”

But on the last frame, the glass was cracked. The picture inside had been removed. Only the cardboard backing remained.

Lena’s pulse jumped.

She reached the bedroom door.

That’s when she heard it.

A faint thump. Then another. Muffled.

“Camille?” she whispered.

No response.

Lena pushed the door open with the barrel of her weapon.

The bedroom was empty.

Except for the closet.

A thin line of light glowed beneath the door.

She approached slowly, listening.

A breath. Soft. Fragile.

She swung the door open.

And froze.

A girl—maybe nine or ten years old—huddled inside the closet, knees tucked to chest, arms wrapped tight around them. Her eyes were wide, terrified, darting instantly to the gun.

“It’s okay,” Lena said gently, lowering it. “I’m here to help.”

The girl didn’t speak.

“Where’s Camille? Is she your mother?”

The girl shook her head so subtly Lena almost missed it.

“Did something happen to her?”

Another tiny shake.

Lena crouched. “What’s your name?”

The girl opened her mouth, hesitated, and whispered, “Lily.”

“Hi, Lily. Can you tell me why you’re hiding?”

Lily swallowed hard. “He told me to.”

“Who?”

But the girl just pressed her lips together, trembling.

Lena scanned the closet.

A small stuffed rabbit. A notebook. A pair of children’s sneakers.

Children’s belongings, in an apartment of a woman who lived alone.

Her stomach twisted.

“Lily… do you live here with Camille?”

Lily hesitated. Then, with a broken little voice: “She saved me.”

Lena’s breath caught. This was no ordinary case.

“Saved you from what?”

Lily lifted her shirt sleeve.

Faded bruises. Patterned. Repetitive.

Lena felt heat burn behind her eyes.

Before she could say another word, the apartment’s front door creaked.

Someone had entered.

Lily’s eyes went wide with pure terror. She darted out of the closet and clung to Lena’s arm.

“He’s back,” she breathed.

Lena rose and guided Lily behind her.

Footsteps—heavy, confident—moved through the kitchen.

“Police!” Lena shouted. “Identify yourself!”

Silence.

Then—a man’s voice. Smooth. Cold.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Lena stepped into the hallway, gun raised.

A tall man stood in the living room, rain dripping from his coat, face carved with quiet fury. He carried a leather duffel bag that sagged with weight.

“Hands where I can see them,” Lena commanded.

He smiled, slow and amused.

“You think you’re the first officer she’s called? Camille never learned.”

“Step away from the bag.”

His eyes flicked down to the hallway—toward the bedroom.

Toward Lily.

Lena noticed the recognition in his gaze. Too sharp. Too intimate.

He knew her.

And Lily knew him.

“Lily,” Lena murmured, “is that—”

“My father,” Lily whispered, voice small as ash. “He killed Camille.”

Lena didn’t have time to react.

The man dropped the duffel.

But not because he surrendered.

Because something inside rolled out with a soft thud.

A woman’s hand.

Camille’s hand.

Lena fired.

The man lunged.

A blur of movement.

He barreled toward her, grabbing her wrist, slamming her against the wall. Pain shot up her arm. The gun clattered away.

Lily screamed.

Lena twisted, fighting his grip. He was strong—too strong—but desperation lent her force. She drove her knee into his ribs. He grunted, loosening enough for her to shove him back.

He reached for the gun on the floor.

She dove after him.

They collided, scrambling. Fingers brushing the weapon. Breath ragged. His elbow smashed into her jaw—stars burst behind her eyes.

Then a sound cut through the chaos.

A crack.

Like wood hitting bone.

The man collapsed forward.

Behind him stood Lily—holding the heavy ceramic sailboat piece from Camille’s puzzle.

Her small hands trembled, but her eyes—her eyes were steady.

Lena grabbed the gun and cuffed the man while he writhed.

Backup burst through the door moments later.

Lily ran into Lena’s arms and clung to her with every ounce of strength she had left.

“It’s okay,” Lena whispered into the girl’s hair. “He’ll never hurt you again.”

Outside, rain began to fall.

But inside Apartment 4B, for the first time that night, the silence finally broke.

It wasn’t eerie anymore.

It was safe.