Chapter 4

I typed the last line.

"Tomorrow at 2 PM, Starbucks on Highway 1. Let's meet and talk."

Everyone replied: "Got it."

I shut off my phone and looked out the window.

Caldwell's car was still parked downstairs. He sat in it, staring at my window.

I pulled the curtains closed.

Tomorrow would be the real beginning.

The next day at 2 PM, Starbucks on Highway 1.

Seventeen people sat in a corner on the second floor.

The entire "Victims of Caldwell Alliance" was present.

I stood up and looked at them.

Programmers, nurses, delivery drivers, salespeople, receptionists, designers...

All immigrants working in America who'd been screwed over by Caldwell.

"My name is Juliet. I live in 302..."

"I'm Mary, 303..."

One by one, they shared their experiences.

I opened my computer and projected the evidence of Caldwell's building violations onto the screen for everyone to see.

I held up three fingers.

"First, everyone organize your evidence—transfer records, chat screenshots, audio and video recordings. The more detailed, the better."

"Second, collectively report to Immigration and the fire department. The more people, the more seriously they'll take it."

"Third, find a lawyer and collectively sue Caldwell, demanding deposit refunds and compensation for damages."

Niles raised her hand. "Are lawyer fees expensive?"

"My mom's a lawyer. She helped us contact a firm that does public interest litigation. They don't charge upfront. If we win, they take fifteen percent of the compensation."

Wallace said, "I agree. Even if we don't get money back, I want to make him miserable."

Everyone raised their hands in agreement.

After the meeting, I returned to the complex. As soon as I entered the hallway, I smelled paint.

On the door to 302, someone had spray-painted "BITCH" in red.

I took out my phone to photograph it, then went to property management to check the surveillance.

The property manager said, "The cameras are broken."

"When did they break?"

"Yesterday."

Yesterday, the day Caldwell got out of the police station. I smiled.

"Right. The cameras are broken. I'll fix them myself."

I called Mary.

"Mary, do you know how to install cameras?"

"Yeah. I took an elective in electronic engineering in college."

"Do me a favor."

Half an hour later, I installed a pinhole camera in the hallway fire exit.

The angle was aimed right at my door.

That night, Caldwell came again.

He stood outside my door and cursed for ten minutes.

Then he pulled out a key from his pocket. He opened the door and went inside.

I was next door at Mary's place, watching the surveillance footage on my phone.

My hands were shaking, but I didn't move.

Five minutes later, he came out holding my laptop.

That was my work computer. It had all my social media accounts, client information, and unpublished articles.

I held back. Didn't go out. Didn't call the police.

After Caldwell left, I returned to my room.

Drawers had been rifled through, closets opened, cigarette ash on the bedsheets.

My underwear was thrown on the floor.

I crouched down and picked them up one by one.

Mary stood in the doorway, her eyes red.

"Juliet, let's call the police."

"Not yet."

"What do you mean not yet? He took your computer! Your work is on there!"

I looked at Mary and smiled.

"That computer—I just replaced the hard drive yesterday. The current hard drive only has one thing on it."

"What?"

"Full video footage of Caldwell breaking into my place and stealing things."

I pulled out a USB drive from my pocket.

"The pinhole camera is connected to this. Him opening the door, entering, taking the computer—it's all recorded."