Everything looks normal until I glance toward the kitchen.
Ethan’s banker box—the one I’d shoved under my desk yesterday after going through the files—is sitting on the kitchen counter. Lid slightly open, papers visible inside.
I didn’t put it there.
The realization hits cold and sharp. Someone was in here. Someone moved the box deliberately, positioned it where I’d see it immediately, left the lid open so I’d know they’d touched it.
I check the rest of the apartment with my pulse roaring in my ears. Bedroom: untouched. Bathroom: same. Closet: nothing missing. The laptop is still on the coffee tablemy tablet still in the drawer. Whoever came in wasn’t looking to steal.
They were reminding me they could.
I grab my laptop and open the activity logs, scrolling through timestamps with shaking hands. Two failed login attempts while I was at work—one at 11:34 a.m., another at 11:41 a.m. Both from this device, local access, no remote connection.
Someone sat in my apartment and tried to unlock my computer.
I call the building manager, a man named Rick who’s worked here longer than I’ve been alive. He answers on the third ring, sounding distracted.
“Rick, it’s Diana Clarke in 3B. Did maintenance come into my unit today?”
“Maintenance? No, we didn’t have any work orders for your floor.”
“Are you sure? My door was unlocked when I got home.”
His tone shifts slightly, concern bleeding through. “You sure you locked it this morning?”
“Positive.”
“Huh. Well, I can check the logs, but I don’t think anyone from our team went in there. You want me to call the police?”
I hesitate, the offer hanging in the air between us. “No. Just… can you confirm no one had access?”
“I’ll check and call you back.”
He doesn’t call back.
By 9:00 p.m., I’ve installed a small wireless camera I ordered online months ago and never bothered setting up. It’s positioned on the bookshelf with a clear view of the living room and front door. The feed routes to my phone, motion-activated, cloud storage encrypted.
I double-lock the door—deadbolt and chain—and shove a chair under the handle for good measure. I check the windows twice, making sure the latches are secure. I leave the lights on in the living room and hallway, shadows too threatening to tolerate tonight.
Sleep doesn’t come. I lie in bed fully dressed, phone within arm’s reach, every small sound from the hallway or neighboring apartments sending my pulse spiking.
Someone knows where I live. They’ve been inside, and they’ve touched my things, gone through Ethan’s files, tried to access my computer.
They want me to know they can reach me whenever they want.
***
Morning feels fragile and unreal. I shower quickly, dress in jeans and a sweater, and decide I can’t stay in the apartment another minute. The walls feel too close, the silence too heavy.
I grab my bag and head to the café two blocks away—the same one I’ve been going to for three years, the place where the barista knows my order before I reach the counter. Routine feels safer than staying home.
The walk is brisk, cold air biting through my sweater. I keep my head down and my pace quick, scanning the street peripherally for anyone who might be following. A few other pedestrians move past me, absorbed in their phones or morning commutes, none of them paying attention.
The café is warm and smells like roasted coffee and baked goods. I order my usual almond latte and take it to the corner table near the window, the spot where the light is good and I can see the door.
I pull out my laptop and try to focus on work emails, but my attention keeps drifting. Everything points to the same conclusion: I’m being watched. Actively. Deliberately.
Whoever’s doing it wants me scared enough to stop.
