Chapter 1: The Break-In

A thief broke into my house and hid in the closet. This is what I saw on the security camera. I don’t dare call the cops—because I have a corpse hidden in the closet. My own heart hammered as I rewound the footage, sweat sticking my shirt to my back. I couldn’t decide what terrified me more—the stranger’s shadow, or the secret already rotting behind that closet door.

My name is Derek Mason, and I’m a thief.

Every day, I make my rounds through the nearby apartment complexes, handing out flyers on every floor. I ride the elevator up, the kind with flickering lights and that faint whiff of burnt popcorn you only get in old buildings.

I like to roll the flyers into little tubes. There's something methodical, almost meditative, about it—keeps my hands busy and my nerves steady.

Then, I wedge them onto the residents’ doorknobs. I always make sure they're tight enough not to fall but loose enough not to leave a mark—little details like that matter when you're in my line of work.

After a day or two, I come back to check on my flyers. Sometimes I’ll do it late at night, keeping my hood up, blending in with the shadows of the corridor, making sure no nosy neighbor is peeking through their peephole.

If the flyer is still there, it means the resident hasn’t been home for several days. In this city, people are always on the move—business trips, breakups, hospital stays, you name it. A stale flyer is a blinking neon sign for opportunity.

That apartment becomes my target.

Unit 201, Building 4, Maple Heights is my target today.

The flyer on the doorknob is the one I left three days ago. It’s a little wrinkled from the wind, but nobody’s touched it. My pulse picks up as I approach.

Three days have passed, and the flyer looks exactly the same as before. Not even a smudge on the paper. That’s a good sign—no one's home, or at least, no one's been paying attention.

I pull on my baseball cap, mask, gloves, and shoe covers. Years of practice have made these motions second nature—a little ritual before each job. I feel the sweat bead at my temples, but I push it away. The cap's a faded Yankees one, the kind you can find at any Walmart. Nothing that stands out.

Then I take out my tools from my backpack and skillfully pick the lock. The click of the tumblers is music to my ears. I learned from a guy in Cincinnati who swore he could open a safe with a Slim Jim and a six-pack.

A faint, sweet fragrance drifts through the apartment. Reminds me of cherry air freshener or maybe one of those plug-ins you get from Target. It’s out of place, almost too sweet, and it puts me a little on edge.

I quietly close the door behind me and start to survey the layout of the place. I always take a moment, let my eyes adjust, listen for any hint of life—a TV left on, a creaky board, a dog barking. Nothing.

That’s my habit—getting familiar with the environment in case something goes sideways. I clock every exit, every weird detail. If you want to make it out, you need to know your escape route.

It’s a typical studio apartment. Hardwood floors, Ikea furniture, a couple of succulents dying on the window sill. There’s a stack of Amazon boxes by the door, a faded Friends mug on the counter. There’s a half-finished puzzle on the table, probably abandoned days ago.

The bathroom is next to the kitchen, and there are security bars on the balcony. That means no easy exit if things go south, but it also means the resident cares about safety. Might be paranoid, might be smart.

There’s only one toothbrush and one cup in the bathroom. The toothpaste is still rolled up nice and neat. No signs of a boyfriend or roommate here.

The shoe rack is filled with women’s shoes. Boots, pumps, a pair of beat-up Converse. I glance at the sizes—small feet, maybe a size six.

It’s obvious the resident is a woman living alone. Solo dwellers are easier marks, but also unpredictable. I make a mental note to be extra quiet.

Since it’s a woman, my main targets are jewelry. If there are valuable electronics, even better. I scope the room—MacBook on the desk, iPad on the nightstand, both tempting but harder to fence without a risk.

After all, hardly anyone keeps cash at home these days. Cash is king, but it's as rare as a neighbor who actually says hi in the hallway.

I find a jewelry box in the nightstand drawer. Velvet-lined, the good kind. The lock's a joke—I pop it open with a flick of my nail.

Two bracelets, a necklace, two earrings, and a ring—all solid gold. No cheap costume stuff here; this is the real deal, probably heirlooms. I weigh them in my palm, grinning. My luck’s in tonight.

I pocket everything. This job is already worth it. The weight feels good—solid, promising. Maybe I’ll finally get that old Buick fixed.

Experience has taught me one thing: quit while you’re ahead. You don’t get greedy, you don’t linger. You leave before the house gets its claws in you.

So I close the drawer and get ready to leave. My heart’s already slowing down, mind already halfway to the bar for a victory drink.

But just as I reach the door, I hear a key turning in the lock. The sound is faint, but unmistakable—a metallic click that yanks me out of my daydream.

My scalp tingles instantly. I freeze, holding my breath, every muscle screaming at me to move.

Panicking, I quickly retreat to the corner and squeeze into the closet. My hands shake as I wedge myself between winter coats and storage boxes. It's cramped, smells like lavender dryer sheets and something sharper.

After all, it’s the only place in the whole apartment to hide. No time to crawl under the bed, no chance at the bathroom. Closet or nothing.

I close the closet door and let out a long breath. My heart’s pounding so hard I’m scared she’ll hear it through the wall. My palms are slick, and I can taste copper in my mouth. Every muscle in my body is screaming to run, but I can’t even twitch.

Listening to the sounds at the door, I start planning my next move. I count her steps, listen for the jingle of keys, the thud of her purse on the entry table.

I hear the door close, then the click of high heels on the floor. She’s confident, not rushing. That’s good—she doesn’t suspect anything.

The owner really is a woman. The way the heels hit the floor—click, click, click—makes it sound like she owns the whole world.

Because the closet is in the corner, facing the door,

I can see the whole room through the crack in the closet door. The sliver of light is enough. I peer out, barely breathing.

A well-dressed woman enters. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Black slacks, silk blouse, hair in a neat bun. She’s got that sharp, no-nonsense vibe.

She drops her purse on the entry table with a thud, kicks off her heels, and mutters something about her boss being a pain in the ass. Then she puts down her coat and hangs it up. I watch her, silently praying she doesn’t notice anything out of place.

Then she walks straight toward the closet. My breath catches in my throat. My muscles lock up.

My heart leaps—this is bad. The adrenaline spikes again. I almost bolt, but force myself to stay put.

I’m about to come face-to-face with her. I hold perfectly still, not daring to blink.

Luckily, she opens the left sliding door of the closet,

and I’m hiding all the way to the right. I flatten myself against the wall, barely a shadow among coats.

I crouch down, hiding behind the clothes, and she doesn’t notice me. She grabs a jacket, eyes glazed, clearly not looking for anything else.

She takes out a casual jacket, puts it on, and closes the closet. My legs are starting to cramp, but I stay put.

I wipe the cold sweat from my forehead—false alarm. My heart’s still tap-dancing in my chest, but I let out a silent sigh.

She goes into the kitchen and washes an apple. The faucet squeaks, and the sound of water is oddly calming. For a second, it almost feels normal—like I’m watching someone’s boring Tuesday night.

Then she turns on the TV and sits on the couch. She flips through channels absently, like she’s done it a hundred times before.

The TV is playing a gardening show. Something about roses and tomato plants. I focus on the droning voice, trying to distract myself.

She eats the apple while watching TV. Crunch, crunch—each bite is loud in the quiet apartment. I wonder if she always eats alone.

I stay hidden in the closet, barely daring to breathe, waiting for a chance to escape. My mind races through possible plans—bathroom window? No, bars. Wait her out? Maybe.

I’ve already prepared for the worst—if I have to, I’ll make a run for it. Worst case, I take my chances in the hallway and hope nobody sees me.

As long as she doesn’t see my face, I’ll be fine. Anonymous is the name of the game.

But that would definitely alarm the neighbors. In a building like this, people gossip. Cops show up, questions get asked, cameras get checked. I’d be toast.

Once she calls the cops, it’ll be easy to track me down through the building’s security cameras. There’s probably one above every elevator. These new buildings are like Fort Knox.

So it’s best to leave without anyone noticing. My fingers twitch on the closet handle, but I wait.

Right now, my only option is to wait for her to go to the bathroom or fall asleep. Patience is a thief’s best weapon, right after a good set of lockpicks.