Suing the Stalker

The police pounded heavily on my door, shouting for me to open up immediately. I took a calm sip of my Cabernet, a cooling hydrogel mask plastered to my face.

Three officers—two men and a woman—stood in the hallway, their faces hard. "We received a report of child abuse." I paused for a second, then peeled the mask off. "I don't have kids." "We need to take a look." They swept through my fourhundredsquarefoot apartment.

Living room, bedroom, bathroom, balcony. No kids. No pets. Not even a second pair of slippers.

The female officer looked at me. "Are you sure no child has been staying here?" "Positive," I said. "I'm single, I live alone, and I don't even own a cat." She frowned.

A thought hit me. "How many times does this make it?" "Excuse me?" "The complaints about me," I said. "How many times this month?" Chapter 1 The female officer flipped through her notepad and looked up. "Three." I let out a dry laugh. "What were the first two?" "Noise complaints and an illegal dog." "I don't have a dog." "I know." She snapped her notepad shut. "We checked last time." One of the male officers chimed in. "Do you have any idea who's reporting you?" "No." I shook my head. "Anonymous, right?" "Yeah.

Anonymous." I gestured to the sofa and poured three glasses of water. "Officers, is there any way to track down who's making these malicious calls?" She hesitated. "Anonymous complaints are hard to trace.

Unless they cross a legal line and cause you actual financial loss or defamation of character, our hands are tied." I nodded, keeping my mouth shut. 'No actual financial loss.' So getting hauled into the leasing office three times, having neighbors whisper behind my back, and the doorman watching me like a criminal didn't count as damage?

When the cops left, a few neighbors were loitering in the hall. Whispers drifted through the open door. "That's her?" "I heard she abuses kids…" "She doesn't look the type.

Always so quiet." "You never know what goes on behind closed doors." I shut the door, cutting off the voices. I had lived in this building for two years.

I never had a single issue with anyone. But starting last month, the way people looked at me shifted. The first complaint came in three weeks ago.

Building management called, saying someone reported me for blasting music at two in the morning. I told them I was asleep by eleven.

They said it was probably a misunderstanding, but to keep it down anyway. I let it slide. Two weeks ago was the second time.

Someone reported me for an illegal pet, claiming a dog was barking all day. That time, management showed up at my door.

They searched my place for twenty minutes, even opening my closets. No dog. Not a single stray hair. They didn't apologize when they left.

Just tossed out, "The caller must have made a mistake." I asked, "Was it the same caller?" They didn't answer. I started paying attention after that.

Someone had a target on my back. I just didn't know who, or why. Today was the third strike. Child abuse. A hell of a lot more serious than a noise complaint.

I dropped onto the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling. I was thirtyone, single, living alone, working as a product manager at a tech firm. Too busy for a boyfriend.

I kept a small circle of friends and mostly stayed in on the weekends. Who the hell did I piss off? I drew a blank. My phone buzzed.

It was Walter, my landlord. "Sloane, did the cops show up again today?" "Yeah. Another misunderstanding." "I know it is," Walter sounded strained. "But the HOA called me.

You're getting too many complaints.

It's a bad look." A cold weight hit my stomach. "Walter, I haven't done anything." "I believe you." He sighed. "But you have to understand my position.

I need to keep this place rentable, and having the police show up every other week is bad for business." "What are you saying?" "Consider this your thirtyday eviction notice, Sloane.

I'll refund your deposit, but you need to pack up and get out.

I don't want any trouble." "Fine." I gripped the phone, my knuckles turning white. "I'll be out." Chapter 2 The phone screen went dark.

I sat on the couch, the silence of the empty apartment pressing in on me. I hadn't done a single thing wrong. Yet I was getting kicked out onto the street.

All because some faceless coward had a vendetta, and I didn't even know who it was.

The next morning, I bypassed the useless building management and called the precinct directly, asking for the female officer who had swept my apartment the night before. "Officer, I want to file a report." "What kind of report, Sloane?" "Someone is maliciously harassing me with fake tips.

That's three times now.

I want to know who it is." Silence stretched over the line for a few seconds. "Look, I get your frustration, but… making an anonymous tip isn't a crime." "Even when every single word is a fabricated lie?" "I know," she sighed, sounding tired. "But legally speaking, unless these false reports cross the line into severe, quantifiable damages—like you getting thrown in a cell or fired from your job—it's incredibly hard to pursue a harassment or defamation charge." "I'm being evicted." "That's… a civil issue.

I suggest you talk it out with your landlord." I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. "And if this psycho keeps calling it in?" "Document it. Keep a paper trail.

If they escalate, it might be useful down the line." I drew a sharp breath. "Right. Got it. Thanks." I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the mattress.

A bitter, humorless laugh scraped its way up my throat. Filing fake reports wasn't a crime. Harassment didn't count unless it thoroughly ruined my life.

So until this invisible stalker actually destroyed me, I was just supposed to sit back and take it? I snatched my phone back up, my thumb tapping open the notes app.

I hit 'New Folder'. Title: Evidence. I was going to log every single fake call. Every whisper. Every disruption. Sooner or later, this coward was going to slip up.

And when I finally found out who they were, I would be ready. Chapter 3 The move happened three days later.

The new place was further from the office, but the rent was cheap, and the landlady was a sweet older woman who minded her own business.

I thought a change of scenery would buy me some peace. Three days in, someone hammered on my door.

It was the building manager. "We got a report about an illegal sublet." I grabbed the doorframe to steady myself. "Excuse me?" "Someone reported you for illegally subletting this unit." "I'm the primary tenant.

How the hell am I subletting?" "We thought it was strange too, which is why we're here to verify." He checked my lease agreement and confirmed I was supposed to be there.

On his way out, he muttered, "Must be a mixup." I didn't say a word. A mixup. That was the third time. Once was a coincidence. Three times? Not a chance.

Besides, I had only been here for three days. The only people who knew this address were the landlady, the leasing agent, and building management. Who else did I tell? HR.

I had to update my address for my W2s. My breath hitched. Someone from work? That night, I tossed and turned, tangling the sheets.

I had been at the tech firm for two years, kept my head down, and never stepped on anyone's toes. But three months ago, something shifted.

We had a corporate restructuring, and they were promoting one person to Senior Product Manager. Two candidates. Me. And Craig. Craig was a veteran.

He had been grinding at the company for eight long years. I had only been there for two.

But over the last six months, my project metrics were off the charts—our daily active users jumped by forty percent. Craig's numbers were aggressively mediocre.

Ultimately, upper management gave me the promotion. Craig's face had looked like he swallowed a lemon when they announced it.

He kept his mouth shut in the meetings, but the backroom complaining was loud enough. "A pretty, single girl?

Who knows what she's doing under the boss's desk to get that promotion." Kelsey, my assistant, had whispered that little gem to me in the breakroom. I brushed it off at the time.

Sour grapes were part of the corporate package. But thinking about it now… Could it be Craig? No. That didn't track.

No matter how pissed off he was, a grown man calling in fake child abuse tips seemed like a massive stretch. Plus, how would he even get my new address?

I forced the thought out of my head. But the next day, something happened at the office that dragged him right back into the spotlight.

Over lunch, Kelsey slid into the seat next to me. "Sloane, did you hear?

Craig's wife showed up at the office today." I paused, my fork hovering over my salad. "What for?" "To make a scene," Kelsey dropped her voice. "Screaming about how unfair the company is.

How her husband slaved away for eight years with no promotion, and you got it in two." I stared at her. "She came in just to throw a fit about that?" "Yep.

Screamed her head off in the HR office for thirty minutes until security escorted her out." "And then?" "And then she left." Kelsey shook her head. "The woman is unhinged.

Management made the call on the promotion. What does it have to do with you?" I didn't answer. A cold knot pulled tight in my stomach.

Chapter 4 That afternoon, I tracked down Trevor from HR. "Trevor, I heard Craig's wife made a scene here?" Trevor sighed heavily. "Don't even remind me.

The woman is a nightmare." "What exactly did she say?" "Said you must have slept your way up.

Screaming that her husband broke his back for eight years only to get pushed out by some little girl." "And then?" "I tried to explain that promotions are performancebased, not tenure.

She wasn't having it.

Kept screaming that the company was rigged against him." "What were her exact last words?" Trevor rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. "She said, 'If I find out who's pulling the strings behind my husband's back, I'll destroy her.'" An icy chill crawled down my spine. "Does she know my name?" "Probably.

It was on the companywide announcement." "Does she know where I live?" Trevor blinked, caught off guard. "That… I have no idea." I gave a curt nod and dropped it.

That night, I sat on the couch in my new place, piecing the timeline together. Three months ago, I got the promotion. Craig didn't.

Craig's wife storms the office, promising to 'destroy' whoever took it. A month later, the anonymous tips start. Noise complaints. Illegal dogs. Child abuse. Illegal subletting.

All fabricated. All pinpointed to my exact address. Coincidence? Not a chance in hell. But I didn't have a shred of proof.

I flipped open my laptop and searched for Craig's wife online. Nothing came up.

I pulled out my phone and texted Kelsey. [ Kelsey, do you know Craig's wife's name? ] [ Yeah, it's Val something… Valerie? ] [ Do you have a picture of her? ] [ No.

Why? ] [ Nothing. Just curious. ] I tossed the phone onto the cushion. I needed to make a move. I had to find this Valerie and confirm if she was the one pulling the strings.

Over the next few days, I started doing my own digging. I started at the office.

Using the excuse of needing to courier a missed document to Craig, I pulled his home address from the employee directory.

Then, I looked up the leasing office for his apartment complex. "Hi, do you have a Valerie listed as a resident there?" "Who is this calling?" "I'm a friend of hers.

It's an emergency, but I can't reach her phone." "Valerie… Building 8?" "Yes, exactly." "She doesn't live here anymore.

They moved out a while ago." "Do you know where they went?" "We don't have that information." I hung up, a frown pulling at my lips. Moved out?

Then where the hell was she living now? Suddenly, a memory clicked into place. The upstairs neighbor.

When I got that very first noise complaint, building management explicitly said it was 'the upstairs tenant'. I had written it off as a coincidence at the time.

But what if… I drove straight back to my old building, took the elevator up one floor, and knocked on the door directly above my old unit. The door cracked open.

A woman in her forties peeked out, her eyes guarded. "Can I help you?" "Hi. I used to live in the unit right below you." "Oh.

It's you." Her expression shifted, something unreadable crossing her face. "What do you want?" "I just wanted to ask… that noise complaint a few weeks ago.

Was that you?" Chapter 5 She froze, her grip tightening on the door. "It wasn't me." "Then who was it?" "I don't know." Her eyes darted away, staring at the wall behind me.

I held my ground, keeping my voice steady. "Look, I know you don't want to get involved in this. But I haven't done a single thing wrong. Someone is maliciously targeting me.

Four fake tips have been called in. All lies." The defensive lines around her mouth softened. "I…" "Do you know a woman named Valerie?" Her eyes darted nervously.

Bingo. "You know her." She stood in silence for a long moment, then let out a heavy sigh and stepped aside. "Come in." I followed her inside.

She handed me a glass of water and slumped onto her beige sofa. "Valerie is a friend of my cousin," she said, wrapping her hands around her own mug. "She crashed here for a while." "Crashed here?

For how long?" "A little over a month." My fingers tightened around the cool glass. A little over a month.

Right when the harassment started. "When did she move out?" "Last week." "Why did she leave?" "I kicked her out." The woman rubbed her temples. "She's… how do I put this? Toxic.

She sat in my living room all day, spewing venom about everyone else.

I got sick of listening to it." "Did she mention me?" She hesitated, picking at a loose thread on a throw pillow, then nodded. "Yes." "What did she say?" "She said… she said you were a homewrecking slut who slept your way into her husband's job." I pulled in a slow, deep breath.

Of course. "What else?" "She said she was going to ruin you. Make you pay." "How?" She shook her head. "She never gave me the details.

But I saw her on her phone every single day, whispering and acting paranoid." "Who was she calling?" "I have no idea. But I caught the tail end of a conversation once.

I heard her say, 'I want to file a report.'" The pieces snapped together, forming an ugly, crystalclear picture. "One last question." "Go ahead." "That first noise complaint against me.

Did she make you call it in?" She stared down at her lap. "Yes." "Why would you do that?" "She claimed you were blasting music at all hours of the night and she couldn't sleep.

She was a guest in my home. I figured she wouldn't lie to me about something like that." A dry, humorless laugh scraped my throat. "I'm in bed by eleven every night.

I don't even own a Bluetooth speaker." A dark flush crept up the woman's neck. "I'm sorry… I had no idea she was setting you up." "It's fine." I set the water glass down on her coffee table and stood up. "Thanks for the information." "What are you going to do?" I turned toward the door, my posture straightening. "I'm going to track Valerie down and have a little chat." Chapter 6 The old woman upstairs gave me Valerie's new address.

An aging apartment complex just a few blocks from the office. I didn't bother calling ahead. I walked straight up to her door, pulled in a sharp breath, and knocked.

The door jerked open. A woman in her thirties stood there, stuffed into an illfitting, cheap slip dress.

Her hair was curled into exaggerated, stiff waves, and her eyeliner was drawn on thick and black—a textbook Karen.

The moment she saw me, a flicker of panic crossed her eyes, but she quickly masked it with a forced, arrogant sneer. "Who the hell are you?" "Sloane." I kept my eyes locked on hers. "Craig's coworker." Her face dropped. "What do you want?" "To chat." I didn't blink. "About those anonymous reports." She froze, a muscle ticking in her jaw before she let out a dry scoff. "Reports?

No idea what you're talking about." "Child abuse. Illegal dogs. Noise complaints.

Subletting." I ticked them off on my fingers. "That was all you." "Got any proof?" "I have a witness. You crashed with my upstairs neighbor.

She told me everything." Valerie's jaw tightened, but she quickly recovered. "Doesn't matter what she says. The tips are anonymous.

You can't pin a damn thing on me." "I'll call the cops." "Call them." She rolled her eyes. "Reporting suspicious activity isn't a crime. So what if I called?

What if you actually were hiding something?" I stepped closer. "I don't have kids. I don't own a dog. I'm in bed by eleven.

I didn't sublet my apartment." "Every single word you reported was a fabricated lie." "So what if it's a lie?" Her voice spiked, sounding like a cat with its tail stepped on. "I just want to ruin a stuckup bitch like you!" I closed the distance between us, my heels clicking sharply against the floorboards, and looked down at her. "Why?

Because I stomped all over your deadbeat husband and took the promotion, ruining your chance to brag to your little friends?" "Bullshit!" Her face flushed a mottled red. "My husband busted his ass at that company for eight years!

You've been there two! Why the hell should it be you? You definitely pulled something shady!" "Like what?" "A young, pretty girl climbing the ladder that fast?

Everyone knows what kind of 'favors' you're doing for management!" I let out a short, sharp laugh. "So you called in a fake child abuse tip because you think I'm sleeping with my boss?" "I wanted to make you miserable!" she yelled, her voice scraping the hallway. "I wanted to show you what happens when you cross me!" "When did I ever cross you?" "Taking my husband's job is crossing me!" I pulled in a slow breath. "Valerie, let me spell this out for you.

The promotion was management's call. Not mine. If your husband failed to move up, take it up with corporate.

Stop harassing me." "Harassing?" She scoffed. "Calling a tip line isn't harassment. It's my right as a citizen." "It's called filing a false report.

Understand?" "False report?" She smirked. "Did you get arrested? Did you get fired? No? Then it doesn't count." I paused.

She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. "I looked up the law. Defamation and false reporting only stick if you can prove severe, quantifiable damages.

You're standing right here, perfectly fine. You can't touch me." I stared at the smug satisfaction twisting her face. The realization clicked into place.

She wasn't just acting on impulse. This was calculated. She knew the anonymous tips weren't technically illegal. She knew the police couldn't act without 'severe damages'.

She was playing the loopholes, exploiting the system just to make my life hell. "Alright." I gave a sharp nod. "I'll wait." "Wait for what?" "For you to cause those 'severe damages'." I turned on my heel and walked away.

Chapter 7 Her voice shrilled behind me as I walked away. "Just you wait! I'm going to keep reporting you!

I'll show you what happens when you steal my husband's job!" I didn't look back. Back in my apartment, I dropped onto the sofa. I pulled out my phone and tapped the screen.

The voice memo app stared back at me. A perfect, uninterrupted recording of the entire conversation.

I opened my notes, scrolled down to the Evidence folder, and typed a new entry: [ March 15, 2024. Valerie confessed to the fake reports. Audio secured. ] She was right.

Without 'severe damages', the police wouldn't lift a finger. So I would wait. I'd wait for her to overplay her hand. I'd wait for those 'severe damages' to hit.

And then, I'd burn her world to the ground. I didn't have to wait long.

Three days later, Trevor from HR pulled me into a glasswalled conference room. "Sloane, we have a situation…" He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, refusing to meet my eyes. "What kind of situation?" "Someone filed a complaint against you." A cold weight dropped in my stomach. "A complaint about what?" He lowered his voice. "About your… personal conduct." I froze. "Spell it out for me." "The anonymous email claims… that you frequently slip into the executives' offices late at night.

That you traded your body for the Senior Product Manager position.

It even included some extremely explicit, derogatory slurs." I gripped the edge of the conference table, the hard wood biting into my palms. "Who sent it