Chapter Three
She made it to the gym, did her circuits, took her yoga class, and nearly made it home before the rain started. She jogged the last half block, and rushed in, only slightly damp.
Monica and John came out of their apartment as she shoved a hand through her hair.
“In and out, in and out,” Monica said with a grin. “Did you forget something this morning?”
“No. Why?”
“We heard you go out. Baby check this morning.” She patted her belly. “So we’re both going to work late.”
“Gym days. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays.” John, a high school teacher, pointed at Arden. “You’re like clockwork. Except this morning.”
Confused, Arden lifted her shoulders. “I left when I always do.”
“Then came back, like five minutes later,” Monica said. “We hardly ever hear you up there, but slow morning for us, so we did.”
“I didn’t come back. I left before eight, and I’ve been at the gym this whole time.”
“But we heard you, walking around upstairs,” Monica said as John lost his easy smile.
“Honey, go wait inside, okay? I’m going to walk up with Arden.”
“Someone was upstairs. Someone was in your apartment, Arden. We heard.”
“We’re just going to go take a look.” John gave Monica a little nudge. “Go on back inside.”
“Should I call the police?”
“Let’s just go take a look. We heard what we thought was Arden leave again, so we’ll just check.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Arden said as she started upstairs with John. But she wasn’t. “How long did you hear someone?”
“I can’t tell you exactly. Half hour, maybe a little longer. Why don’t you give me your key, stand back? We heard someone leave, but how about I go in first?”
“You know what? I’m not going to argue with that.” She handed him her key as she nodded at her door. “If someone broke in, they didn’t actually break in.”
He unlocked the door, opened it.
“Everything looks as usual to me. I’m just going to do a quick walk-through while you wait.”
But she came in behind him.
“It’s not.”
“Not what?”
“Not as usual. The throw on the couch. That’s not how I left it.” Her heart began to hammer in her throat. “Neither are the pillows.”
“Okay.” He rubbed a hand on her arm. “Is anything missing?”
“I don’t know, I … Yes. A picture of Zoey and me, on that shelf. It’s not there. A candle. I just bought last week. I had it on that table. It’s gone.”
When it struck her, she ran to her office.
“Someone sat at my desk. I always push the chair all the way in. It’s not. And things on the desk, they’ve been moved. God, my flash drive’s gone. My backup.”
“Go on and check your computer. I’m going to call the police, and text Monica. I’m going to stay with you.”
Her fingers trembled as she booted up her machine. “You have an appointment.”
“We’ll reschedule.”
“It’s here.” She breathed out. “It’s all here. You need a password to open anything. I started that in college, and it’s a habit now. It’s all here.”
“Have you got any cash, any jewelry?”
“I always keep two hundred right here.” She opened a desk drawer. “And there it is, but … John, this is crazy, but I had a box of pens in here, and they’re gone. Who’d take pens and leave cash?”
“You’ve got me. You should keep looking around, make a list of what’s missing. I’m going to make those calls.”
A half hour later she sat on the couch, flanked by her neighbors, and spoke to Officers Uli and Jamison.
“I left at seven-forty-five—or very close to it. I spent the next ninety minutes at the fitness center and got back just as it started to rain.”
“We heard her leave,” Monica put in. “Arden leaves about that time on Wednesdays, and Mondays and Fridays. Then we heard her come back—or we thought it was her. We laughed about it because Arden’s so organized.”
“We heard someone walking around,” John added. “Arden’s so quiet you forget someone lives up here, but we heard someone walking around, then leaving again. It had to be at least a half hour. At least.”
“This is a four-unit building,” Uli began. “The other tenants?”
“Jim Fetteral up here,” Arden told him. “He lives alone, travels for work. He’s away now. Downstairs, ah, Karen and Mike Angelo.”
“They both work,” Monica put it. “They’re usually gone by eight-thirty.”
“You said you have things missing,” Officer Jamison said.
“Yes, I made a list. It doesn’t make any sense.
The only things of real value, to me, are my flash drive, a pair of heart-shaped gold stud earrings my parents gave me when I got my ears pierced.
And especially my mother’s locket. My grandparents gave it to her when I was born.
It had a baby picture of me and a lock of my hair in it. ”
When tears burned her eyes, she pushed them back.
“Do you have a photo of the earrings, the locket?”
“I have one of the locket. My mother wearing it.”
“If we could have that. We’ll get it back to you.”
Rising, she handed over the list she’d made. “There are other things, odd things. My hairbrush, my shampoo, a half-empty bottle of hand lotion, things like that. I’ll get the photo.”
Uli glanced up from the list as she came back with the photo. “A box of pens?”
“In a drawer of my desk where I had two hundred in cash. The cash is still there, the pens aren’t. Who takes pens, or a half-empty bottle of hand lotion, a hairbrush, a used candle, a tube of lipstick, things like that?”
“Who else has a key to your apartment?” Jamison asked her.
“My aunt and uncle. That is, they keep a key for emergencies. They’ve never used it.”
“A boyfriend?”
“No. I’m not involved with anyone. I haven’t been for … I haven’t even dated for close to a year. I’ve been focused on work. I haven’t broken up with anyone, and I’ve never given my key to anyone other than my family.”
She answered questions, but none of them lessened the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Someone had come into her home, pawed through her things, taken away personal items.
When the police left, she just felt lost.
“How about I call the locksmith for you?” John gave her hand a squeeze. “The cops were right. You need to change the locks, add that dead bolt.”
“No, I’ll take care of it. You’ve both done enough. More than. I’ll have the locks changed, add the dead bolt, and a nanny cam on top of it. But they’re not going to find my things.”
“They’ll do what they can, Arden, including going around the neighborhood to ask if anyone saw someone come in, or someone just hanging around the building.”
She nodded at Monica. “I’d say it had to be kids, just doing the stupid, but the cash? That makes no sense. Thanks for sticking with me. I’m okay. I’ll call about the locks, and I’m ordering that stupid camera.”
“If you need anything, we’re here. And while you’re in New York, we’ll keep an eye and ear out.”
“We’ll let the other tenants know,” John added. “More eyes and ears. I’m really sorry, Arden.”
“Me, too.”
She had her locks changed, a dead bolt added. Though she tried to work, she got up from her desk again and again to check those locks, to look out the windows.
When she finally gave up, she packed. After going through her travel checklist—twice—she went to bed.
Minutes later, she rose. Even as she told herself she was overreacting, she picked up one of her dinette chairs and hooked it under the doorknob.
And still barely slept.
Once, Arden had imagined herself living in New York again. Not Brooklyn this time, but Manhattan. A writer of searingly controversial novels, she’d live in a loft in SoHo and fashion herself a studio where she’d work surrounded by books and art.
She’d frequent trendy coffee shops where she’d sit with interesting, erudite friends for hours discussing the mores and foibles of society at large.
She’d host interesting cocktail parties and sleep with quirky, interesting men.
Then she’d realized she actually didn’t want to sit around coffee shops for hours, had no talent or desire to host cocktail parties, and just wasn’t built to sleep around.
She absolutely didn’t want to or have the chops to write searingly controversial novels.
What she wanted was the work. She wanted to tell stories and know that some outside her family would read and enjoy them. She liked the routine she’d fallen into. Friends, family, work.
She didn’t need to be important. Or famous. She’d rather have a seat in the audience than stand in the spotlight.
Because her parents had left her financially secure—the college fund, their life insurance, their savings and investments, the house in Brooklyn—she’d been able to take and make the time for her writing.
Her other jobs had always been more about discipline, socializing, and pushing herself out into the world.
She liked her simple, organized life, its lack of chaos, even its predictability. Knowing a large part of that was rooted in her world shattering at fourteen, finding herself tossed into the unknown—however warm and loving—didn’t change the fact of it.
Now, after a smooth flight, after unpacking, she stood at her hotel window and once more considered moving to New York.
Not for the lofty café conversations or sophisticated parties. Certainly not for the men she’d take to her bed, then flick away with a careless smile.
(Although maybe just once or twice on that one.)
But for the energy and color. The unapologetic life.
As she watched the traffic, the people swarming the sidewalks, she had to smile, shake her head.
Yes, for a few days, maybe a week or so, she could embrace and absorb all that movement, that life. And after a few months—if not sooner—it would exhaust her.
But she’d lived a few subway stops from this area for the first fourteen years of her life, so she knew it. She’d take some time to embrace and absorb before her first meeting.
In the bathroom, she opened her travel kit, touched up her makeup. She knew what she was doing there, so did what she could to erase the signs of a sleepless night.
And after years of hit-and-miss, she knew what looked good on her. Simple lines, forget the frills, and go for strong colors.