“Why?”
“Because Daniel Hargrove died eight years ago.”
I stared at the photo again. “That man was alive three days ago.”
“I know.”
Neither of us spoke.
Outside, a car passed slowly, tires whispering over wet pavement. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
Adrian put the phone away.
“I think you should leave now,” he said.
The abruptness startled me. “What?”
“You’ve told me enough for tonight.”
“Enough to make me more confused than when I arrived?”
“It’s safer that way.”
I laughed once, sharply. “You invited me here.”
“My mother invited you here. I allowed it because I wanted to thank you and understand what happened. Now I understand that I understand nothing.”
“That makes two of us.”
He walked me to the door himself. In the hallway, Margaret appeared at the top of the stairs in a robe, one hand on the banister.
“You’re leaving already?” she asked.
Adrian looked up. “You need rest.”
Margaret ignored him and looked at me. “Nora?”
There was something in her voice. A warning, maybe. Or a plea.
“I should go,” I said. “Thank you for dinner.”
Her face tightened with disappointment, but only for a second.
“Adrian,” she said softly, “do not make decisions out of fear and call them protection.”
He did not answer.
I stepped onto the front porch. The night smelled like rain and lake wind. Adrian followed me out, closing the door behind him.
“Take a cab,” he said.
“I can manage.”
“I’m sure you can. Take a cab anyway.”
He handed me a small card. No name, only a number embossed in black.
“If you remember anything else, call.”
I looked at the card, then at him. “And if I don’t want to be involved?”
“Then throw it away.”
“Would that work?”
“No.”
At least he was honest.
I slipped the card into my coat pocket. “Goodnight, Adrian.”
His expression shifted at the sound of his name, almost too quickly to notice.
“Goodnight, Nora.”
I did not call a cab until I was two blocks away.
When I got home, my apartment door was unlocked.
I froze in the hallway.
The old brass knob sat slightly turned. I knew I had locked it. I always locked it. Living alone teaches rituals, and working emergency calls teaches what happens when people ignore them.
For several seconds, I stood perfectly still, listening.
No footsteps. No voices. No movement inside.
My first instinct was to call the police. My second was to call Luis. My third, which I hated, was to call the number on Adrian’s card.
Instead, I backed away, went downstairs, and called 911 from the lobby.
Two officers arrived twenty minutes later. They checked the apartment while I waited by the mailboxes with my arms crossed against the cold.
Nothing was stolen.
That was what made it worse.
My laptop sat untouched. The little jar of emergency cash in the cabinet was still there. My mother’s watch remained in the dish near my bed.
But someone had gone through my interview folder.
The pages were spread across my table. My résumé. My references. Copies of my licenses. My old letters of recommendation. Everything had been handled and placed back just slightly wrong.
One officer took notes with the bored patience of a man who already knew there would be no arrest.
“Could be someone looking for identity documents,” he said.
“They left my passport.”
“Could be interrupted.”
“By what? My soup?”
He gave me a look.
I apologized because women who live alone learn to make themselves smaller around men who decide whether to help.
After they left, I sat at the kitchen table and stared at the scattered pages.
Then I noticed something.
One sheet was missing.
Not my résumé. Not my certifications.
The letter from my father’s old fire captain was gone.
I had included it because it spoke about character, duty, and how I had started volunteering after my father died. It had always embarrassed me a little, but recruiters liked that sort of thing.
Why would anyone take that?
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I let it ring twice before answering.
“You called the police,” Adrian said.
I closed my eyes. “Are you watching my building?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“A patrol officer mentioned your name to someone who mentioned it to someone else.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.”
I was too tired to be afraid properly. “Someone broke into my apartment.”
“What did they take?”
“One letter.”
“Which letter?”
I looked at the empty space on the table.
“It was about my father.”
Silence.
Then Adrian said, “Do not stay there tonight.”
“I’m not going to be chased out of my home by a missing piece of paper.”
“This is not pride, Nora. This is risk.”
“My whole life is risk.”
“Not like this.”
