Chapter 3 - The Spreadsheet
The next Monday I started recording. 10:12, Theo fell asleep. 10:16, bass started — I recorded thirty seconds. 10:39, it stopped. 1:55, I put him down again. 2:01, drums. I recorded those too.
The day after was worse. Theo had fought sleep since sunrise. By 10:10 I was swaying beside the crib with tears running down my face because he'd finally stopped crying. At 10:14 his eyes closed. At 10:15, music exploded through the ceiling.
Theo startled so violently his arms flew outward. He screamed. I picked him up, bounced him, shushed him. Nothing worked. Eventually I stepped into the hallway and slid down the wall with him against my chest, and cried until my lungs hurt.
Then I called Priya.
She'd been my best friend since we were nineteen, lived twenty minutes away, had two kids of her own. She answered on the second ring. "Hey. What's wrong?"
I tried to speak. Only a breathless sob came out. Her voice changed immediately. "Clara, where is Theo?"
"With me."
"Is he safe?"
"Yes."
"Are you safe?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Breathe first."
She stayed on the line while I tried. After five minutes I managed to explain — the noise, the timing, Desmond's smirk, Owen saying I was probably connecting things because I was stressed.
Priya went silent. "Send me every recording."
"What?"
"Everything you have. Videos, times, texts to Owen, whatever."
"Priya, I don't want a war."
"Neither do I." Her voice shifted from sympathetic to dangerously calm. "I want evidence."
I wiped my face. "What are you going to do?"
"He picked a fight with the wrong mother."
"Priya."
"Give me twenty-four hours." Then she hung up.
Twenty minutes later she texted me a spreadsheet — time, date, noise type, duration, was the baby asleep, was there a recording. I almost laughed. That was Priya. Nothing if not thorough.
She showed up that afternoon with coffee, groceries, and her laptop. While I fed Theo, she listened to the recordings through headphones, then closed the laptop.
"This is not subtle."
"Owen thinks I'm losing it."
"Owen is not here during the day."
"He said stress can make me connect things."
"Stress can do a lot of things. It cannot manufacture an acoustic drum solo in a phone recording."
I laughed through my tears.
Priya spent the next few hours knocking on doors — not asking anyone to confront Desmond, just asking if they'd experienced his noise. By six she'd talked to eight tenants. Six had complaints. She collected statements from everyone willing to give one, then sent it all to Hollis, the property manager, and Denise, the building manager — my nap log, the recordings, prior complaints, and one detail I'd missed.
In three videos, the music started less than two minutes after my apartment went completely quiet.
Priya pointed at the waveform. "He is listening."
My stomach dropped. "You think he waits until Theo stops crying?"
"I think he can hear enough to know when your routine changes."
I felt sick.
Hollis called within the hour. He apologized, explained Desmond already had one formal noise warning and had been told the acoustic drums violated building rules.
"Why is he still using them?"
"We didn't have documentation that he continued."
"You do now."
"Yes, we do."
May you like
He said he and Denise would do an inspection.
That night, Theo slept nearly three straight hours.
