Chapter 32
No Signs of Forced Entry
Andrew
I freeze at my front door, key halfway to the lock, my mind still reeling from the camping trip that changed my life. My heart plummets, a sudden lead weight in my gut.
The lock turns too easily.
The familiar resistance of the deadbolt, the satisfying click I'd grown accustomed to, is absent.
My fingers, still chilled from the drive home despite the car's heater, tremble slightly around the key.
My mind flashes back to Vince's kiss on the beach, the taste of salt and desperation, the way his hands had gripped my waist as if I might float away without his anchor.
That memory, so vivid and warm, clashes violently with the cold dread creeping up my spine now.
The door wasn't locked.
Did I forget to lock it before leaving? I never forget.
My thoughts race through the weekend's events. I'd been so caught up in the anticipation of seeing him, of finally having that conversation, that maybe... maybe I had been distracted enough to make such a basic mistake.
The possibility tastes bitter in my mouth.
I push the door open slowly, bracing for what I might find. The hinges groan in protest, a sound I've never noticed before, each inch revealing more of the nightmare within.
The kitchen comes into view first—cabinet doors flung wide, dishes scattered like confetti across the countertops.
A half-empty carton of milk lies on its side, a white puddle spreading slowly across the linoleum, the sour smell already beginning to permeate the air.
My favorite cereal box, usually sitting upright on the counter, is torn open and its contents spilled across the floor, mixing with broken glass from what looks like a shattered drinking glass.
As the door swings further, the full reality crashes down: my apartment is a disaster zone, completely trashed.
The living room is worse—cushions ripped from the sofa, stuffing spilling out like wounds.
The television screen is cracked, spiderwebs radiating from a central point of impact.
My laptop lies open on the floor, the screen shattered, keys scattered around it like teeth knocked out in a fight.
Papers from my desk are strewn everywhere, some torn, others crumpled into balls, my careful organization reduced to chaos.
Every drawer is pulled out, every closet door stands open, their contents dumped onto the floor with careless disregard.
My breath catches in my throat, the air thick with the metallic tang of fear and the cloying sweetness of spoiled milk.
This wasn't just a burglary; it was a deliberate, malicious destruction of everything that made this space mine.
The sheer violence of it sends a cold sweat down my spine, and my mind races.
Who would do this? Why?
My hands tremble as I fumble for my phone. This has never happened to me before. I don't understand.
After calling the police, I dial Vince. I can hear his engine starting before I've even finished describing the scene. He’s here in half the time it would conceivably take him to drive over and pick me up for a run.
On the other hand, the police take forever to arrive.
Vince fills the oppressive silence with a tirade about the disparities in police response times across Los Angeles neighborhoods, his voice growing louder with each word.
He paces my small living room, his boots crunching over broken glass as he gestures animatedly, recounting how officers showed up within five minutes at his place just to help get a neighbor's cat off his roof.
His frustration is palpable as he contrasts this with the agonizing wait we've endured, each minute stretching into an eternity while my violated space remains untouched by an official investigation.
His face flushes with anger, jaw tight as he emphasizes the injustice of it all, how his "privileged neighborhood" gets immediate attention while my apparently less important case isn't prioritized in the slightest. He describes the cat rescue in vivid detail—the officers' gentle coaxing, the small ladder they brought specifically for the purpose, how they even stayed to make sure the terrified animal was safely back inside—while I sit here surrounded by wreckage, with nothing but his protective presence for comfort.
Who would do this? Why? I don't own anything of real value. Nothing seems to be missing. What if they had been waiting for me inside?
I feel utterly violated.
This isn't just a break-in. It feels personal, as if someone wanted to shake me to my very foundation.
We take a breather and head outside. Vince sits beside me on the curb, his hand enveloping mine as I rest my head on his shoulder. He gives my hand a firm squeeze, pulling me from my thoughts.
"You okay, Andy?"
I smile, kissing his shoulder before leaning back against him. "I'm fine."
He laughs, kissing the side of my head. "Oh. Fine, huh?"
My laughter breaks free as I sit back up to look at him.
"You can't stay here, you know," he says quietly, stubbornness hardening his expression.
"What?"
"You're not staying here. We don't know who did this."
"This is my home..." I frown. "I'm staying here. Where else would I stay?"
"You'll stay here when you get new locks. And cameras. And a security system of some kind."
I laugh. "You're funny."
His glare doesn't waver. "You think I'm joking?"
"I can't afford a security system, you dork. Or cameras. Or paying LA rent prices and not staying here—"
"You'll stay with me," Vince says, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I'll talk to your landlord about a rent adjustment."
I open my mouth to protest, but he's already shaking his head, that stubborn set to his jaw I've come to know so well. Before our disagreement can gain traction, the wail of sirens finally cuts through the neighborhood's calm. A patrol car pulls up to the curb, lights now flashing silently.
The detective—a weary-looking man with kind eyes—asks to speak with me alone. Vince's jaw tightens, but he nods, his hand squeezing mine once before he turns to leave.
"I'll grab us some tea from the café down the street," he says, his voice softer now. At the car door, he pauses, turning back with that smile that makes my chest ache. "Don't forget to pack an overnight bag," he adds, as if it's already settled that I'll be staying with him.
I try to maintain my glare, but it melts away under the warmth of his gaze. He's the cutest thing in the world, I think, my anger dissolving. I can't be mad. I can't believe he's mine.
Detective Brinkman is tall, older, with graying hair and a mustache. He seems nice enough, but he looks tired. Whatever delayed him from getting here, it was probably more urgent than my trashed apartment.
I walk back inside with him and sit on the couch, surrounded by broken things.
My favorite vase from my mom... shattered.
My TV screen... cracked. Records, snapped in half.
Even my yoga mat has been shredded and strewn across the floor.
The kitchen is worse, with plates and cups smashed everywhere. Every drawer has been emptied.
"You're sure you locked your apartment door?" the detective asks, his pen scratching against the small notebook in his hand.
"Yes, I did." I pause, the memory of the key turning in the lock flickering in my mind. "I doubted myself for a second, but... I always lock it. It's automatic, muscle memory."
"Anyone else have a key to your home?"
"No, it's just me." The words feel hollow in the wreckage of my sanctuary.
"Anything missing?"
My eyes sweep across the chaos—shattered glass, torn cushions, my laptop screen resembling a fractured mirror. "I haven't gone through everything... I honestly don't know. Nothing stands out."
"So no cash, valuables, or IDs are missing?"
"I don't think so." I shake my head. "I don't own anything expensive. My wallet and phone were with me."
"Do you have anyone in your life who would want to do something like this?"
The question hangs in the air like smoke. My mind races.
Kaitlynn's venomous history of possessively tracking Vince, Ted’s wounded pride when I ended things, and Samantha... What if she discovered I'd sabotaged her reconciliation with Vince last night? The timing feels impossibly tight, the thought itself a betrayal.
"You still with me?" Brinkman's voice cuts through the spiral of my thoughts.
I force a brittle laugh. "Yeah. Just thinking. There are quite a few people who might not be too happy with me right now."
"That's a start. Can you give me their names and numbers?"
I sit up straighter. "Wait. You’re going to reach out to them?"
"Yes. Unless you're saying you don't want to press charges? We can file the break in, but I don’t recommend you stay here tonight."
Unease coils in my stomach at the thought of police knocking on doors, questions asked, pointing fingers.
"Actually," I say, my voice steadier than I expect, "I'd rather figure this out on my own. I don't want to press charges. Not yet."
Detective Brinkman's pen pauses mid-air over his notepad, his weary eyes studying me with practiced skepticism. "You sure about that, son?"
I meet his gaze, nodding as conviction wars with the tremor in my hands. "Yeah. But I'll call if I change my mind."
He slides a business card across the splintered coffee table, the crisp paper feeling impossibly flimsy in the wreckage of my life. As he turns to leave, his knuckles rap against the doorknob—a sound that echoes through the violated space like a final, damning pronouncement.
"One last piece of advice," he says, his hand resting on the doorframe. "Talk to your landlord about those locks. Someone out there has a key to your place... or they're very, very good at picking them. No signs of forced entry. That is, if you're absolutely certain you locked up when you left."
The implication hangs in the air as he steps out, leaving me alone with the shattered remnants of my sanctuary and the chilling realization that someone has walked into my home as easily as I would.