Everything’s Fine
Lex
Lane’s face is etched with concern as she asks, “What can I do?”
I’m moving as fast as I can. My building manager called 15 minutes ago. My house sitter arrived this morning to check on Millie and found my front door ajar and the place out of sorts. They had already called the police and confirmed Millie was fine, but they encouraged me to come home, file a formal report, and check for missing items.
They told me Millie was fine, but I won’t believe it until I see her. Until I know for sure. And I need to know what was taken. My heart slams against my chest, and it takes everything I have not to fall apart.
What the fuck!
“Lex, stop.” Lane grips both my arms, forcing me to face her.
Tears prick my eyes. I need to keep moving.
She pulls me into a tight embrace before I can tell her to let me go or pull away. Gently rubbing my back. I can feel myself shaking.
“Everything is okay, babe. Your cat is fine. If anything’s missing, you can replace it. It’s just stuff.” She soothes.
Those words have me coming unglued, and I sink into her, quietly crying.
Seriously, what the fuck?
When I finally get myself together, she helps me pack the last of my clothes into my overnight bag and walks me to my car. We say goodbye, and I promise to call her when I finish the police report.
The drive back to the city takes forever and mere seconds. My stomach sinks as I pull into the parking garage. Three police cruisers are parked in front of the building. Isn’t that overkill for a break-in?
The following two hours pass in a blur. Police cleared my condo hours ago, and two cruisers parked outside are responding to a domestic dispute on another floor. The officer is waiting in the building manager’s office. He offers a kind smile and ushers me into the elevator. Sadness and confusion consume me as the elevator rises. The silence is unbearable. I’m about to speak when the officer beats me to it.
“This was likely a crime of opportunity. Your house sitter maybe forgot to lock the door. Or someone went to the wrong apartment.” His voice is gentle and kind, and his cologne is masculine and spicy.
He’s trying to keep me calm.
Can he hear my heart slamming against my ribs?
I nod without speaking but look toward him. He is young, tall, and handsome. When he notices that I have shifted to look at him, he offers a crooked smile, and I can’t help but return it. He looks like the boy next door—sweet and familiar.
I’m struck by déjà vu. Which is impossible—I’ve never had my apartment broken into. I’ve never engaged with the police here. The elevator dings, signaling my floor, and my door at the end of the hall catches my attention. With each step, the rate of my breathing increases. By the time we reach the door, my hand shakes so badly that the officer reaches out and lays a hand on top of mine.
“Ma’am —” He starts.
I interrupt him, “Lex. My name is Lex.” Even my voice shakes.
Fucking breathe — pull yourself together.
Something flashes across his face. I shift my eyes to his badge: Calloway.
“Lex, everything is fine. Let’s go inside, and you can check what’s missing. If the amount is valued over a certain amount, we complete one type of report. If it is under that amount, we do a simpler form. You will be fine.”
Nodding, I allow his hand to replace mine, and he pushes the door open.
I brace for chaos and destruction, but my apartment is eerily untouched. Mildred comes screaming out of the bedroom, hopping onto the table and then to the back of the chair. She pushes her head into my arm, purring loudly.
I scoop her into my arms and inspect her. Her pink, peach fuzz-covered body is perfect—there’s not a mark on her. Within seconds, she squirms to get down, meowing loudly with her distaste for being held. I set her down and slowly move further in, looking around. There are magazines on the floor, but Millie does that often enough.
I check the cupboards, drawers, and even underneath the couch—nothing. I go into my bedroom, which appears just as I left it. I confirm that my grandmother’s jewelry is still in the same place. After 20 minutes, I turn to Officer Calloway, and my eyebrows push together in confusion.
“Something missing?” He asks.
“No?” I say, unsure, confused. “Nothing that I can see is missing. Unless the person grabbed something so inconsequential, I don’t realize it was taken. Everything worth anything is where I left it.”
“Well, that’s excellent, Ms.—” He looks down at his paperwork for my name.
“Donnelly, and please call me Lex.” I insist.
I scan the apartment again, my gut twisting. Nothing is missing. Nothing’s out of place.
But the bathroom door is open.
I never leave it open.
Why would someone go to the effort to break in and take nothing?
Officer Calloway walks me through the report, which takes about seven minutes, given that nothing is missing. He tells me what to do if I realize something is missing. He also leaves for 15 minutes, radioing for another officer to come to stay with me. When he returns, he has a new lock. I perch on the counter and watch him work on installing it.
“Is this a common procedure?” I question.
Are cops this nice to everyone?
He laughs without looking up.
“Not really, but I get the impression you don’t know many people here.”
He’s not wrong. I have a handful of friends, mostly from work, but not anyone I could call to help with this sort of thing. I’m pretty independent and could have figured it out. Realistically, though, I wouldn’t have even thought to change the lock. He stands up, an accomplished look on his face when he hands me two new keys.
“All set. Did you change the locks when you moved in?” He asks.
I grimace. No, I did not.
He nods, smiles, and says, “I had a feeling. This should stop anyone with an old key from walking in again. If you’re scared or someone tries to come back, call.” He holds out his card before continuing, “Call 911 if it’s an emergency but feel free to call me if you have questions about the case. The chances of us catching the person are slim, but I will answer your questions.”
The act comforts me, so I tuck the card into the top drawer under my legs, which dangle over the counter’s edge.
I hop down and look up at his sweet face.
“Thanks, Officer Calloway. Really, this… you... I feel better.” I don’t know how to thank him for providing a sense of security.
My mind flashes back to when I was fifteen years old, to the kind eyes of the officer who took me to safety. I don’t think I ever thanked him, either.
“Colton.” He offers. “My name is Colton. No thanks needed. This may come as a shock, but this is literally my job.”
The joke takes my brain a second to register, and I laugh harder than is likely appropriate. My nerves are shot. He reaches for his hat on the table and turns to leave.
He turns around as he reaches the door and reiterates, “Seriously, Lex. Call anytime. Stay safe.”
Then he is gone. Millie darts around as if nothing happened. The noise of the city below sounds more chaotic and violent. It was as if I could hear the darkness I had never realized existed. I return to the counter, open the drawer, and pull out his card. I inspect it, examining the embossed department logo and his name. I don’t put it back in the drawer. Instead, I set it on my nightstand—just in case.
When I come back to the kitchen, I register how warm it is. I peel off the sweater I’m wearing and look at the thermostat. It’s much higher than I typically keep it, but nothing happens when I push the button to lower the temperature. Frowning, I unplug it and plug it back in. It powers back on but still won’t lower.
Great. Of course, the fucking thermostat won’t work now.
I strip out of my jeans and walk to the window. I reach for the window latch, then hesitate. It’s stupid—I’m on the ninth floor, after all. No one could possibly…
I step back and leave it locked.
I can sleep naked.
Wine. I need a glass of wine.
I walk to the cupboard, grab a coffee mug, then fill it with ice.
Ice and wine. A true connoisseur’s pairing.
I fill the mug with the bottle of white I left in the fridge and curl up on the couch, sipping it and flipping through social media on my phone. A few minutes later, the day hits me. I’m exhausted. I glance around, my eyes feeling so heavy. The clock on the stove says it’s 7:47 pm. So early.
I’m so tired.
I stumble off the couch, my legs suddenly heavy, sluggish—like lead. My vision blurs at the edges.
Am I drunk? From one glass of wine?
I set my mug down on the table, looking in to see I didn’t even finish half of it.
Lex, you fucking lush.
I stretch and accept defeat in the battle to stay awake. I go to my bedroom, crawl across the bed, and flop onto my belly.
God damn, this bed is comfortable.
I drift off to sleep, nearly able to ignore the feeling that something is off.