Chapter 4
I stand frozen by inaction and fear. Someone broke into our apartment and trashed the place. Are they still inside? Will they come charging out at me when they realize I’m home?
I take an instinctive step backward.
The hallway is swamped in a gloomy half light thanks to the busted light fixture at the top of the stairs. We’ve been complaining to the building manager about it for weeks, but he hasn’t lifted a finger to fix it.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
This is a common occurrence in our building. I often lose service as I climb the stairs, only regaining it once I’m inside the apartment and close to a window.
I should get out of here. Turn and run and not stop until I’m back outside, on the sidewalk, where it’s safe and I can call for help. But then, before I can flee, my eye catches a glint of silver on the floor outside the door. I step toward it and reach down, pick it up.
A single small diamond stud earring.
I recognize it as one half of a pair that Sam bought for me when we were first dating.
They weren’t expensive—he was broke at the time—but I’ve always loved them.
I’m overcome by a sudden, white-hot fury.
How dare a stranger come into our personal space and take the things we cherish.
I forget all about fleeing. Enraged, I push the door wide and step into the apartment.
It’s only then, after I’ve put myself in danger, that I realize how stupid I was.
What if the apartment wasn’t empty? I could have come face-to-face with whoever broke in .
. . I could have ended up shot or stabbed.
Stuff like that happens all the time in the city.
Thankfully, there’s no intruder lying in wait.
But they have left evidence of their presence everywhere I look.
The apartment is a mess.
The seat cushions have been pulled off the couch and flung aside.
The lamp that previously stood on our end table now lies on the floor, bulb smashed.
The intruder also sprayed graffiti in red paint on the coffee table and TV screen.
I rush through the apartment, checking every room.
There’s more graffiti on my desk in the breakfast nook—our apartment is so small it was the only place I could put a desk—and on the kitchen cabinets.
The bathroom mirror has been similarly vandalized.
But it’s when I enter the bedroom that my heart falls.
As I suspected from the earring in the hallway, my jewelry box is open and empty.
They took everything. The only reason I still have my engagement ring is because I’m wearing it.
A small mercy. When I check the nightstand next to Sam’s side of the bed, I see that the automatic watch he inherited from his great-uncle Albert is missing, too.
I return to the living room, go to the coat closet next to the front door, and open it, already knowing what I will find.
My Burberry jacket is gone. The one my parents bought me for Christmas three years ago.
So is the case containing Sam’s personal laptop.
I turn to survey the chaos that has descended upon our apartment and fight back a scream of rage.
I want to lash out, punch the walls, do anything to release the pent-up frustration and sense of violation that boils within me.
But none of that will do any good, so instead, I cross the room and step close to the window where the reception is best, rest my laptop bag on the floor, then dial 911.
After that, I call Sam and tell him what’s happened.
Then I pick up a seat cushion, put it back on the sofa, and wait for help to arrive.
And in that moment, I wonder how my world could have come crashing down around me so quickly.