Uncle Mike asked without looking up. His power drill hummed like a giant hornet.
“Something like that,” I said, taping the third bag shut.
“About time. He looked at you like you were part of the furniture. And furniture like this, Sarah, is hard to find these days. You’re a classic.”
I gave him a tired smile.
“I’m not a classic, Mike. I’m just used.”
“Nonsense. You’re vintage. Mint condition.”
The new lock clicked into place with a heavy, satisfying thud. The new keys felt cold and substantial in my hand.
“This,” Mike tapped the reinforced strike plate, “will hold against a battering ram. If they want to kick this in, they’d better bring a sledgehammer.”
He tried to refuse the money, but I forced the cash into his shirt pocket.
“Thanks, Mike. One favor. When you head out, if you see Mark and his mother, don’t say a word. And if you hear shouting, don’t call the cops right away. Give me ten minutes.”
The old man looked at me over his glasses. I saw the understanding in his eyes.
“Sarah, you’re a smart girl. Just remember the law. Don’t touch them. Just record everything.”
“I know.”
Mike left. I locked the deadbolt and slid the security bar into place. Now for the final step. I dragged the bags out to the hallway. Four massive black lumps. That was Mark’s entire life in this apartment over the last three years. I placed his laptop carefully on top, wrapped in his own puffer jacket. I wasn’t a vandal; I was just returning his property.
According to the GPS, Mark was 40 minutes away. We had a family tracking app—his idea, so he could “make sure I got home safe” from the archives. I went back inside. The apartment felt strangely large. There was more air. I went to the small floor safe in the closet. Mark had changed the code months ago. I tried his mother’s birthday: 08-11. It clicked open. Predictable.
