I let my smile warm. “We are. We’re here on behalf of Dr. Astrid Thompson, Priya’s boss. We were hoping you could help us clarify a couple of things.”
“The police were already here this morning.” She said it like a question.
“Right, and your cooperation has been so helpful.”
The woman stood a little straighter. “Did they find something? Is Priya okay?”
“We haven’t made contact with her yet,” Rios explained. “We’re… trying to make sense of some conflicting information.”
Maria’s brows knit. “Conflicting how?”
“You told him yesterday that when you checked the apartment, Priya’s things were still here. Messy bed, clothes in closet, and the like.”
“That’s right,” she said.
I exchanged a quick glance with Rios. His jaw tightened a fraction.
“The police are saying most of her belongings were gone when they looked,” I said. “Neatly packed. Closets empty.”
Maria stared. “Gone? No. No, that’s not what I saw.”
“I believe you,” I said. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Did you go up with the police earlier this morning?” Rios asked.
“No. They asked me to wait outside, so I let them in and waited at the bottom of the stairs.” She exhaled long and uneasy. “Look—this whole situation is making me nervous. I’ve never had trouble with tenants before.”
“I understand,” I said gently. “I know we’re asking a lot. But would you consider letting us inside to see it? You can stay right with us. We won’t disturb anything. We just want to see what it looks like now compared to what you saw yesterday.”
Maria didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers tightened around the dish towel she’d been holding. Something flickered across her face—not quite fear, but the uncertainty of a person who realized her memory could become evidence, and she was terrified of being wrong.
Finally, she nodded. “All right. Give me a second.”
She stepped back inside, retrieved a key from the small tray by the door, locked up behind her, and led us toward the apartment.
The climb up the narrow wooden stairs made the boards creak in the quiet. A few spiderwebs fluttered under the eaves. The door at the top looked freshly repainted compared to the sun-bleached siding around it.
Maria unlocked it and pushed it open, gesturing us inside.
The place looked like the model unit of an apartment complex, not somewhere an actual person had lived for a month. The futon-style bed had been made with clinical neatness, navy comforter pulled tight enough to bounce a quarter. The kitchenette countertops gleamed under the overhead light, every surface wiped down to an antiseptic shine. Empty sink, bone dry. Empty drying rack positioned at a perfect right angle to the window. Empty trash can except for a single scrunched paper towel, sitting too centered, as if it had been placed, not tossed.
The whole space felt sterile, devoid of the casual messiness that comes with actually living somewhere. No coffee ring stains on the counter. No water spots on the faucet. No dust gathered in the corners where someone might have missed during their regular cleaning routine.
Maria stepped just inside the door and stopped, her shoulders going rigid. “This isn’t it. This… someone cleaned.” Her hand drifted to the back of the dining chair as if she needed something solid to anchor herself to reality. The uncertainty in her voice was palpable—the tone of someone whose memory had just been called into question, even though she knew what she’d seen.
Rios stayed a few feet back from her, maintaining careful distance while his eyes swept the room in a slow, methodical pattern. I could see him cataloging details with that sharp, analytical gaze that missed nothing. Because I found myself wanting to watch him, I moved toward the closet to conduct my own examination, leaving him space to work.
The bifold doors stood ajar, revealing a sliver of empty space within. I nudged them wider with one knuckle, careful not to disturb potential evidence.
Nothing but a dozen mismatched plastic hangers on the rod, the kind of cheap hangers you’d find at any discount store. They hung at different angles, as if someone had removed clothing in a hurry without bothering to straighten what remained.
Behind me, Maria’s voice carried a note of frustrated certainty. “Yesterday, there were shirts hanging here. Shorts folded on that shelf. A gray sweatshirt draped over the top of the rod. I remember it because I thought it was too warm for someone to need a sweatshirt, even with the AC running.”
Rios didn’t look up from where he’d crouched beside the small three-drawer dresser, his movements deliberate and respectful of the space. “What about her shoes?”
“Right there.” Maria pointed to the small woven mat positioned beside the door. “Blue sneakers. A pair of brown leather sandals. And some beat-up flip-flops that looked like she’d had them forever.”
“All gone now,” I murmured.
