No sooner had she said that word, than I finally understood the whole situation.
Stalker.
Someone who follows your every move, spies on you, and may even threaten you.
Or even worse. Much worse.
This word alone made me understand why the client in front of us seemed so distrustful, and particularly about me.
She didn't trust anyone, because virtually anyone could be this stalker.
And it was obvious to me that she trusted the detective enough to let her into her home, accompanied by a man she had never seen before.
However, it also showed something else: the desperation in which this woman must have been, to have to come to this. To receive two strangers in her small apartment, at the end of the day, despite the discomfort she might feel.
The detective gave me a quick smile as Mrs. Munehara began to tell the story from the beginning.
"At first, I always found a bag hanging from the knob of my front door," she explained while glancing nervously at the door. "There were always flowers in it, and no card to tell who they were from. I thought maybe I had a secret admirer who had them delivered to my house...."
The detective had pulled out her smartphone in the meantime, taking notes directly with a small stylus. It seemed she had ditched her notebook for something more technologically advanced. And she wrote so fast, there was no way this was the first time she'd used this feature. It was probably how she took notes during a case.
"Did you check with the delivery company who might be their client?" Asked the detective.
The client shook her head negatively.
"They refused to tell me, because it's confidential... Which kind of disappointed me, so I stopped picking up the flowers, and left the bag hanging on my door..."
Mrs. Munehara fidgeted nervously on her cushion, clearly uncomfortable with what she was saying.
"But that's when it got weird. For a while, there was no more bag hanging on my door. I thought maybe the person had dropped it...." She says. "But then two weeks ago, things suddenly took a disturbing turn..."
I could see that, as her story progressed, the woman facing us lost her composure more and more. As if what she was saying was making her fear worse.
"I came home, and... There were flowers on the floor, right in the middle of the room." Mrs. Munehara explained, her trembling hands clutching her cup of tea.
It was indeed disturbing. How could the flowers have ended up inside?
Even I, who didn't always understand people, knew that the person responsible had most likely broken into the house we were in.
"Was there anything notable or strange about that day, and the flowers in question?" Asked the detective.
"I... I don't think so..." replied Mrs. Munehara. "I came home as usual, and everything was in its place. The only thing that had changed were the flowers on the floor..."
"That's weird..." Said the detective. "Did you have the lock changed after that?"
The client nodded her head in agreement.
"I didn't want to take the chance that the person could get in again..."
"You had the lock changed... But... Was there any sign that the lock had been forced?" Asked the detective.
"No, I don't think so..." replied the client, somewhat unsettled by the question. "I always thought the person came in through the window... So I had the lock on the door changed, and added an extra lock to the window."
Oh. That was indeed strange. Because it didn't fit with the fact that someone had come in. Sure, the person could have come through the window... But in that case, why...?
"Why did you change the lock on the door, when the intruder obviously came through the window?" I asked abruptly, not realizing that I had spoken faster than my thoughts.
Perhaps I had been too accusatory in my tone of voice, for the customer took a slight step back, while frowning. Perhaps she thought I was doubting her, or worse, accusing her of something.
Even the detective winced a little as she gave me a reproachful look. But she quickly reassured the client.
"Don't worry, he can be a bit direct in his question," she said, pointing at me; "but as I explained to you, we need all the details we can get on the case.... Even those that may seem insignificant to you."
Ms. Munehara gave me a confused look, then seemed to quickly forget my blunder.
It was clear that she was driven by fear to keep talking to us. And that the slightest word higher than the other might startle her.
"The owner told me it was best," she said, looking at the detective. "That if the person had gotten in, they might have been able to copy the duplicate keys; or tampered with the lock so they could get in even without a key...."
The detective continued to frantically take notes, the stylus sliding rapidly across the screen of her cell phone. It also seemed that she was sending messages to a third person at the same time as the discussion was going on, without me knowing who exactly she was talking to.
But Ms. Munehara had not yet shared everything about the situation.
"You told me on the phone that things have gotten worse in the last two weeks. Could you tell me more about that?" The detective asked.
This time, the client clasped her two hands together in front of her, bringing the cup close to her body, and stared with worry dilating her pupils, at the window that looked out onto the courtyard. All her fears were crystallized in that thin glass wall separating her from the outside.
"For two weeks..." Mrs. Munehara began.
She didn't have time to finish her sentence, when the landline phone on the wall near the entrance started to ring. This startled the customer, causing her to drop the cup she was still holding on the floor.
The cup did not break, thanks to the tatami covering the floor. But in return, they got soaked with tea.
And her frightened look changed of target and intensity, shifting from the window to said phone; which she looked at with terror.