Chapter 4 - The Locked Apartment And The Missing Keys
Julian’s sedan coasted to a quiet stop against the asphalt curb of Oak Street, its headlights sweeping across the weathered brick facade of my apartment building. The neighborhood was dead quiet at this hour, save for the hum of a distant highway and the occasional rustle of dry leaves blowing across the sidewalk. I stared up at the second-floor windows of my unit, where the blinds remained drawn and lifeless. The black maid dress I still wore felt heavy and conspicuous beneath my wool coat, a constant reminder of the restaurant hallway I had fled only hours ago.
"Stay in the car for a moment," Julian said, shifting the gear into park and killing the engine. The sudden silence inside the cabin felt fragile. "Let me check the front entrance first."
"I can walk," I said, my fingers tightening around the strap of my purse. "I've lived here for two years, Julian. Marcus doesn't own this building."
"Marcus doesn't need to own it to make things difficult," he replied, already pushing his door open. "He owns people who manage properties like this. Just wait until I give you the clear."
I watched him step out onto the cracked concrete sidewalk, his tall silhouette cutting a sharp line against the amber glow of the overhead streetlamp. He moved with a quiet, deliberate caution, checking the vestibule glass before pulling the heavy front door open with his gloved hand. I sat staring at the dashboard clock, listening to the ticking cooling engine, my thumb tracing the edge of the dark smartphone resting on my thigh. The active call had ended hours ago, but the screen felt warm, as if the panic of that narrow tiled hallway were still radiating through the glass.
A minute later, Julian reappeared in the doorway, waving me toward him with a subtle flick of his hand. I got out, the night air biting sharply through my thin collar as I hurried across the pavement and slipped inside the warm, dim entryway of the building.
"The locks," Julian said softly as I reached the bottom of the wooden staircase. "Did you bring your keys?"
"Right here," I whispered, pulling the brass key ring from my coat pocket and marching up the stairs to the second landing. My apartment door, painted a dull chipped green, looked entirely normal from the outside. But as I slid my brass key into the deadbolt and turned it, the mechanism met a dead, unyielding resistance. I twisted it harder, the metal scraping against dry tumblers that wouldn't budge. "It won't turn. It's jammed."
"Let me try," Julian said, stepping in front of me. He took the keys from my cold fingers and tried the key himself. The key slid into the slot, but the cylinder remained locked fast, turning uselessly inside the brass plate without engaging the latch. "They've changed the core. Someone swapped the lock cylinder entirely."
My breath caught in my throat. "They couldn't have. The landlord—Mr. Henderson—he wouldn't just let someone..."
"Mr. Henderson probably received a phone call he couldn't refuse," Julian said, his jaw tightening as he examined the fresh, bright-metal screw heads on the lock plate. "Or a very generous cash deposit to look the other way until morning."
Before I could answer, a door down the dimly lit hallway clicked open a fraction of an inch. A sliver of yellow light cut across the threadbare carpet, and an elderly woman with silver hair rolled in curlers peered out at us through a metal security chain. It was Mrs. Gable from apartment 204.
"Who's making all that racket?" she asked, her voice raspy and suspicious. "Oh. Emma? Is that you, dear?"
"Mrs. Gable," I said, stepping toward her door. "Do you know what happened to my lock? I can't get inside."
The old woman eyed Julian standing behind me in his tailored suit, then looked back at my black uniform collar. "I didn't want to stick my nose in it, but there were two men here around seven o'clock. Big fellows in dark suits. They were talking to Mr. Henderson in the lobby, and then they came up here with a toolbox. They were in your apartment for twenty minutes, dear. When they left, they carried a couple of large cardboard boxes down to the alley."
"Did they say who sent them?" Julian asked, his tone level and polite, though his eyes were sharp.
"They didn't have to say a word," Mrs. Gable muttered, pulling her floral bathrobe tighter around her thin shoulders. "Men who look like that don't answer questions from neighbors. But I saw the logo on the side of their van parked out back. It said Vance Hospitality Group. Same company that runs that big restaurant downtown where Emma works."
The name hung in the cold hallway air like a physical weight. Marcus hadn't just tried to trap me in the restaurant; he had moved immediately to secure my home, my papers, and whatever leverage I might have kept in my bedroom drawer.
"Thank you, Mrs. Gable. Sorry to wake you," I said, my voice barely audible.
"Be careful, child," she whispered, and before I could reply, her door clicked shut and the security chain slid home.
Julian turned back to me, pulling his phone from his coat pocket with one hand while using the other to steady my elbow. "Come on. We're not getting in tonight without forcing the issue, and doing that right now plays right into his hands."
"My social security card, my bank statements, my brother's medical records—they're all in that desk," I said, feeling the sudden, suffocating panic rise in my chest again. "If they took those..."
"They took what they wanted, but they didn't get you," Julian interrupted, his voice cutting cleanly through my spiraling thoughts. He dialed a number on his phone, pressing it to his ear as we walked back down the stairs and out toward the car. "Arthur? It's Julian Hayes. I need an emergency tenant injunction filed in county court first thing in the morning... Yes, an illegal lockout. Commercial property owner overstepping residential bounds... I'll send you the address now."
He hung up the phone and opened the passenger door for me, his expression grim but steady. I climbed back inside the sedan, wrapping my arms around myself as the heater began to blow warm air against my shins.
"Where are we going?" I asked, looking out the frosted window as Julian slid into the driver's seat and pulled away from the curb.
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"My place outside town," Julian said, shifting into third gear as we headed toward the county highway. "It's private, it's secure, and Marcus doesn't have a key to the front gate."
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