Where are you? I texted him.

As soon as I saw the texting dots appear, I dialed his number again.

“There you are,” I said when he finally answered.

“Yeah. What’s up?”

In a rush, I said, “Someone is in my apartment. Or they were, I don’t know.”

“What?” he asked, suddenly animated. “Audrey, are you okay?”

“I’m okay, just rattled. I was walking up the path when I saw my creepy neighbor coming out of the alley, and then after he left I noticed my gate and front door were open. I don’t know if Ryan was in there or it was someone else, but I don’t care. I’m so, so over this shit. I’m never, ever coming back to this godforsaken apartment again.”

“Of course not. Have you called the police?”

I sniffled an affirmative.

“Okay, good. I’m coming over.” He paused. “You want me to come over, right?”

“Yes,” I sobbed. “God, yes, Max. Please come. I need you.”

NO ONE WAS INSIDE the apartment. But someone certainly had been. Every cabinet and drawer in the kitchen had been opened and its minimal contents strewn across the floor. My boxes were upended, the cardboard torn. My closet had been riffled through, my clothing pulled from the hangers and piled on the floor, my carefully organized shoes ripped from their boxes and thrown around the room. Everything that could have been disturbed was, right down to a roll of paper towels, which was unwound and stretched around the room like a demented streamer.

For all the destruction, nothing seemed to be missing. The vintage Chanel flap bag I’d painstakingly sourced from eBay sat untouched on my bed where I had left it the day before; the real pearl necklace my parents had given me for my sixteenth birthday was under my overturned jewelry box.

After the officers had taken their report and left, I surveyed the wreckage of my belongings. If I weren’t standing right in the middle of it, staring at the slashed and gutted remains of my beanbag chair, I wouldn’t have believed it had really happened. Why would someone terrorize me this way? What did they want?

“Someone must be really mad at you,” Max said quietly beside me.

“But why?” I asked, my voice catching in my throat. “I don’t get it. What have I done? I’m a good person, Max. At least I try to be.”

“Hey,” he said, kissing me on the forehead. “You are a good person. You didn’t do anything to deserve this, okay?” He paused and looked around. “Unless … unless you can think of someone who might think you did.”

“No, not really. I’ve had some problems with my neighbor, but he would have robbed me. There was an issue with a colleague at work, but that’s behind us and, anyway, I can’t imagine he would tear my home apart. There’s this creep who hangs around the museum, but …” I trailed off as I realized something. “Jesus, Max, this must be the same person who was in here that night. To think they had so much violence in them and they were standing there, watching me sleep …” I choked back tears, unable to continue.