Chapter 7 - Someone Came Into My Apartment
By late afternoon, I wanted only one thing.
My own bed.
Aunt Marissa offered to keep me at her house another night, but I insisted on going home.
I told myself I needed clothes.
I told myself I needed my laptop.
I told myself I needed the familiar quiet of my apartment after twelve hours of police stations, hospital rooms, lies, and photographs.
The truth was simpler.
I wanted proof that at least one piece of my life still belonged to me.
Marissa drove me across town.
My building was a converted brick warehouse with a secure lobby, key-card elevators, and cameras covering every entrance.
I had always considered it safe.
That belief lasted until I reached my front door.
It was closed.
It was locked.
Nothing looked damaged.
But the small ceramic bowl where I dropped my keys was visible through the narrow gap between the door and the wall mirror inside.
It had been moved.
I knew that because I was obsessive about where I left things.
The bowl normally sat centered beneath the mirror.
Now it was six inches to the left.
I stopped with my key halfway to the lock.
Marissa nearly walked into me.
“What?”
“Don’t touch anything.”
She went still.
“What happened?”
“Something’s wrong.”
I backed away from the door.
Then I called Detective Velez.
She told me not to enter.
Patrol arrived nine minutes later.
They opened the apartment with me standing behind them in the hallway.
At first, nothing looked wrong.
The sofa cushions were in place.
The television was still mounted.
My jewelry box sat untouched on the dresser.
My wallet from the night before was on the kitchen counter.
Then I walked toward my office.
The desk drawer was open.
That drawer contained no money.
No valuables.
Only old paperwork, spare charging cables, and a small external drive where I kept personal backups.
The drive was gone.
My stomach dropped.
I checked the second drawer.
Closed.
Third drawer.
Closed.
The missing drive was the only obvious item taken.
One officer asked what was on it.
“Photos.”
“Financial records.”
“Work files.”
“Anything related to the wedding?”
I thought about it.
Then I remembered.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Messages from Delaney.”
Marissa looked at me.
I continued.
“I backed up my phone last week because I was switching devices.”
The officer wrote that down.
“What kind of messages?”
“Years of messages.”
“Recent ones?”
“Yes.”
“Anything about the documentary?”
I searched my memory.
Three weeks earlier, Delaney had sent me a string of texts asking what topics would make me leave a camera interview.
I had thought she was joking.
She wrote, What if they ask about Derek?
Derek was my former fiancé.
Then, What if I bring up Dad’s will?
Then, What if Mom tells them you were the difficult kid?
I had responded, If this documentary is about your wedding, stop trying to make me a storyline.
Delaney had sent a laughing emoji.
At the time it felt like ordinary Delaney cruelty.
Now it looked like research.
Someone had come into my apartment and taken the drive containing those messages.
Detective Velez arrived while building security was pulling camera footage.
She looked exhausted but alert.
“Any sign of forced entry?”
“No,” the officer said.
Velez looked at me.
“Who has a key?”
“No one.”
“Family?”
“No.”
“Former partner?”
“No.”
“Cleaning service?”
“I canceled it months ago.”
“Building management?”
“They have emergency access.”
She turned to the security supervisor.
“Electronic entry log?”
He nodded.
“We’re pulling it.”
My phone buzzed.
Hayes.
I did not answer.
Then a text appeared.
I hear you’re telling police wild stories about forged releases.
I showed Detective Velez.
Her expression sharpened.
“How does he know that?”
I felt cold.
Only police, the company attorney, Aunt Marissa, and I knew I had denied signing the release.
Unless my mother knew.
Unless Delaney knew.
Unless someone inside the company had told him.
I typed nothing.
Another message arrived.
You are creating legal problems for yourself.
Then another.
You should talk to counsel before making more accusations.
Velez photographed the screen.
“Do not engage.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
The security supervisor returned carrying a tablet.
“We have an entry.”
My heart started pounding.
“What time?”
“Ten fourteen this morning.”
I had been at the police station.
“What key?”
He frowned.
“Master credential.”
Velez stepped closer.
“Who used it?”
“We can’t tell from the credential alone.”
“Camera.”
“We’re checking.”
He tapped through footage.
The hallway outside my apartment appeared.
Time stamp 10:13:52.
A figure stepped out of the stairwell wearing a baseball cap, a gray delivery jacket, and a surgical mask.
The person carried a paper bag.
They walked directly to my door.
No hesitation.
No checking unit numbers.
They swiped a small card.
My door opened.
The figure went inside.
Seven minutes later, they emerged carrying the same bag.
Nothing visible had changed.
They walked away.
“Can you zoom?”
The supervisor enlarged the image.
The picture became grainy.
The cap hid most of the face.
But one detail remained visible.
A watch.
Large black face.
Silver edge.
A narrow red stripe on the band.
Marissa made a sound beside me.
“What?”
She pointed at the screen.
“Hayes wears that watch.”
I looked at her.
“Are you sure?”
“He showed it to everyone at the rehearsal dinner.”
I remembered.
Limited edition.
Custom band.
A gift from Delaney.
Hayes had talked about it for ten minutes because the watch cost more than my first car.
Detective Velez did not celebrate.
She asked security to export the original footage.
Then she asked whether the master credential had been issued that morning.
The supervisor checked.
His face changed.
“It was cloned.”
“How?”
“Someone copied the code from a staff card.”
“When?”
“We’d need IT.”
Velez turned to me.
“Did Hayes ever visit your building?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“Two months ago.”
“Why?”
“Delaney sent him to pick up a box of childhood photographs for the documentary.”
The detective wrote that down.
“Did he go beyond the lobby?”
“Yes.”
“He came up here.”
The implication made my skin crawl.
He had seen the building.
He knew the layout.
He knew where my office was because I had shown him the photo box on my desk.
But knowing was not proof.
Not yet.
A crime-scene technician dusted the desk and drawers.
There were fingerprints, but most were mine.
One partial print on the drawer handle did not immediately match anything in their field system.
The thief had probably worn gloves.
The watch might be coincidence.
The jacket could belong to anyone.
The body shape was not definitive.
Every clue opened a door and stopped before crossing the threshold.
I stood in the middle of my apartment feeling violated in a completely different way than I had at the wedding.
At least the ballroom had been public.
This was private.
Someone had entered my home while I was at the police station and searched for something tied to the case.
Then Marissa asked a question I had not considered.
“Do you have another backup?”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“Of the drive.”
I almost said no.
Then I remembered the cloud account my office used for automatic encrypted backups.
I had connected the external drive to it months earlier and forgotten about it.
“Yes.”
Detective Velez looked up.
“Where?”
“Cloud storage.”
“Do you know the password?”
“Yes.”
“Do not log in from this device.”
“Why?”
“If someone entered your apartment for the drive, assume they may have tried to compromise your accounts too.”
My stomach tightened.
We used a police laptop on a clean network.
I entered the account.
Two-factor authentication triggered.
I approved it.
The backup folder appeared.
Photos.
Tax files.
Work documents.
Phone archive.
Everything was there.
Relief washed through me.
Then I noticed the security panel.
RECENT LOGIN ACTIVITY.
There had been an attempted login at 10:21 a.m.
Seven minutes after the masked person left my apartment.
The location showed a commercial internet address across town.
Detective Velez copied the information.
“Can you identify that address?”
“Not immediately.”
“Could it be Hayes?”
“Possibly.”
I sighed despite myself.
“There’s that word again.”
This time she smiled faintly.
Then the digital technician beside her spoke.
“I know the domain.”
We both turned.
He pointed at the network information.
“This connection is routed through a post-production facility.”
“Which one?” Velez asked.
He enlarged the registration name.
May you like
CALDWELL HOUSE MEDIA.
THE JEWELED TIARA
