As she continued to watch, Daniel stood abruptly, his face twisted in frustration. He began pacing the room, the girl’s eyes following him with weary resignation. He gestured emphatically towards the papers, his voice rising. The girl shrank back, clutching her backpack as if it were her only shield. Angela felt a wave of nausea; the power dynamic was palpable, oppressive.

Unable to bear the sight any longer, Angela stumbled back, her mind a whirlwind of possibilities. Could she have misread the situation? Yet, every instinct told her otherwise. She knew she had to act, but caution was paramount; confronting the man directly might place the girl in further jeopardy.

Angela hurried back inside, her heart hammering with urgency. She needed to find a way to ensure the girl’s safety without alerting Daniel. The front desk phone seemed like a lifeline. She hesitated for a moment, worried about the repercussions of involving the authorities based on glimpses through a window. But doing nothing was not an option.

With determination, Angela picked up the phone and dialed the local police. Her voice was steady but laced with an undercurrent of fear. She recounted the nights of observations, the growing unease, the peculiar patterns she had witnessed. The dispatcher promised to send an officer to check on the situation.

As she hung up, Angela felt a sliver of relief mixed with apprehension. She returned to her post, hands slightly trembling, hoping that her actions would bring the truth to light. Whatever was happening in Room 112 needed to be addressed, and she could only hope that she had intervened in time.

Throughout the night, Angela remained vigilant, her eyes flicking to the clock and the parking lot outside. Each passing minute seemed to stretch endlessly. She prayed silently for the girl’s safety, for the situation to be resolved peacefully, and for justice, if necessary, to be served.