The Lace Lingerie Mystery

I was on a business trip out of town when I got a text from my neighbor.

[Can you and your husband keep it down? Also, one of your undies fell onto my balcony.]

Shocked, I opened the photo she had sent.

The underwear wasn't even my style, but it matched the one I'd seen in my husband's online shopping cart.

He'd told me it was a gift for me, but I remember noticing the size—it was one size larger than mine.

When confronted with the neighbor's message, my husband swore that the house must've been broken into and claimed the intruder left the item behind.

But something about his story didn't sit right, so I decided to dig further. That was when I stumbled upon his social media.

His latest post was just three words. [I bought this.]

It was paired with a photo of a lingerie gift set.

Beneath it, there was a comment. [I'm wearing it.]

Attached was a picture of a woman's legs—and the unmistakable background of my living room.

The evidence was undeniable.

I packed up the underwear and brought it straight to the police.

"My husband says our house was broken into. This was left behind by the intruder, and it might have DNA on it."

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!]