‘What’s wrong?’ he says, when he finally answers, tucking in the top of a towel he has wrapped around his waist. He runs his hands through dripping hair, pushing it away from his face.

‘I think someone broke into my apartment.’

‘Seriously?’ he says, already pulling his door closed behind him, following me down the corridor. Back in my apartment, Jeff looks around, then at me. He was expecting chaos, I guess. To his eyes, I know, it all looks as it should, or maybe even a bit cleaner than usual.

‘I don’t get it,’ he says.

‘That pile of laundry, Jeff. I left it on top of the cabinet.’

‘No way,’ he grins. ‘Someone broke in and moved your clothes. We better call the FBI.’

‘You’re not listening, Jeff. I left those clothes on the cabinet. Someone’s been in here.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m certain.’

The grin slips away. ‘Is anything missing?’ he says, walking around, leaving damp footprints, one hand gripping his towel, which for a brief moment, I imagine him dropping.

‘I don’t know. I haven’t had time to check.’

‘But you’re certain that’s where the clothes were when you left?’

I nod.

‘Maybe they fell down,’ he says.

‘Into a neat pile and in the same order they were in before?’

He shrugs, slides me another grin, the kind you use when what you really want to do is growl. Jeff doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’ve simply forgotten I moved them, and he doesn’t want to waste any more time in my apartment when he’s already under pressure to get to his, no doubt, extremely hot date.

‘You want to ring the cops?’ he says with a sigh.

‘No,’ I say, ‘that’s okay. Maybe you’re right, I must have moved them and forgot about it.’ I give him a push. ‘You go, get ready. And thanks.’

‘No problem.’

After I lock the door behind him I investigate more thoroughly, but there doesn’t seem to be anything missing. It’s not long before I find myself wondering if Jeff was right. Did I move the laundry?

No, I didn’t. I know I didn’t. Why would I move it to the floor?

Then I see it. I’m in the bedroom when I notice the photo, face down on the bedside cabinet. Someone was in here. That photo is always standing. My eyes open to it every morning searching out her smile. I place the frame upright and a chill runs down my spine. I’m icy cold. Looking around I see nothing else has been touched, just this photo. Why? Who? And how did they get in? The spare key is out at my dad’s house and I doubt Dad even knows how to find my place.