Ghost in the (Washing) Machine [pt. 3]

I jockey for space in the group as we all crowd around the fig tree to see what the naturally-sun-kissed blonde has to say, her eyes wide with excitement as she holds up a hand to tell us to be quiet, and then beckons everyone closer.

Behind the planter is an old heat register, left over from the building's original heating system.

"That vent doesn't—"

"Shhh!" They collectively turn and shush me.

Effective.

Owl-eyes raises her hand. Clipboard pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"Yes, Heather, what is it?"

Heather the owl sniffs and leans forward.

"Iron." she says, and surfer girl nods enthusiastically, hair shimmering like the tail of an expensive pony.

The group makes a collective sound of understanding.

Hot topic wheels the cart over, and some of the beeping increases.

"But thats not—"

"Ma'am! Please!" clipboard reprimands me, but this is the final straw.

"Ohkay! Ma'am? I won't tolerate being shushed in my own apartment, and I'm thirty two—or—thirty three, now I guess—"

Heather and the woman helping with the cart exchange a knowing glance, while clipboard throws his hands up.

"The investigation will be tainted if you continue to reveal information about the incident before we are done collecting data!"

One of the Gay Mario Brothers (TM) , the father-in-lawly figures who I realized are obviously a couple, pats me on the shoulder.

"It's understandable that you're upset. Why don't you take a trip down to that nice cafe on the ground floor and get yourself a treat, and when you get back we'll be ready to interview you!"

I'm mad that he's talking to me like a I'm a toddler, but… a treat sounds pretty good.

…

Thank you for reading,

Hartwell