Page 17 of Deceitful Oath

My body protests the idea of more movement as I heave myself up the stairs. What a shitty night.

Of course, the one night I’m hoping to make major bank at The Velvet Room, none of the regulars show up. Instead, we got bachelor parties, rich frat boys, and drunken girl’s nights—the trifecta of bad tippers.

I round the corner, sighing with relief that my door is still attached to its hinges. I slide my key in, palming the knob, and it falls off in my hand. I stand there, holding it stupidly, staring at my door.

Did my doorknob really just break off?That’s some shit luck, even for me.

I try to turn my key, but it sticks, although the pressure of my hand nudges the door gently and it swings open with a creak. I drop the doorknob, letting it clatter down the hall.

There’s no fucking way.

I listen for noise and peek in, sweeping my gaze across my tiny apartment. It looks completely undisturbed. No clothes on the floor, no broken furniture. Weird, maybe the lock simply just decided to die on me.

I slip inside, shutting the door behind me and flip on the lights. Pushing an armchair up against the door, I walk through the studio, checking every nook and cranny. Everything seems to be in its place.

I flop onto the sofa, exhausted and confused. A stack of books topples onto the floor and I freeze. Those were definitely not here when I left earlier today.

I grab the books, sifting through them, and stand up to look at my bookshelves. Even with my chaotic brain, I wouldn’t have pulled five random books from five different shelves. I also wouldn’t have left them on my couch without remembering it.

Slowly, I tuck the books back in. That’s when it hits me.

Men’s cologne.

I sniff, taking a deeper breath. A rich, smoky scent fills my lungs. It smells like a rich man, like the guys that frequent The Velvet Room. Goosebumps explode all over my body, and fear shoots up my spine.

There was a man in here.

I sprint to the bathroom, throwing the door open. It’s empty. I run to my bed, opening the curtain that divides it from the main room. Empty.

Someone must be messing with me. First, a break-in without any missing items. Now, this? I shake my head and whip my phone out of my pocket. I practically stab the screen with anger, typing out a message to my landlord.

It’s past two a.m. and I’m not expecting a response, but my phone dings immediately. I flip it open.

>>Don’t worry. I’m replacing all the locks in the building tomorrow morning. Sorry about that.

I don’t even question why he’s suddenly decided to become Landlord of the Year. Instead, I send him a thumbs-up emoji and pass out, fully clothed, on my couch.

***

The next morning, I’m straight-up depressed. It takes all my willpower to crawl off the couch, wash off last night’s makeup, and throw on clean clothes.

I drag myself to the kitchen, knowing my fridge is empty. A small part of me hopes I have a drop of milk left to make some coffee. Caffeine is the only thing that can save me right now.

Yawning, I pull open the fridge and slam it shut right away. I back away, rubbing my eyes. I must be dreaming.

Wait, am I dreaming?I pinch myself.Nope, definitely not dreaming.

I slowly tiptoe back to the fridge and crack it open again. Bagels, cream cheese, a fresh bottle of milk. I pull it all the way open and kneel down, yanking out the vegetable drawers. Apples, tomatoes, lettuce…

Dumbfounded, I stare at my colorful, fully stocked fridge. There are eggs, an expensive brand of bacon, and salami—my mind reels.

I’ve had my share of bad luck over the years. I’ve gotten myself into some weird situations. The Grand Turkey Abduction five years ago, the time some rich dude hired me to catch rabbits in his backyard—but nothing was as weird as this.

Someone breaks into my house and leaves me $200 worth of groceries? I stand there, staring at the fridge in dumb shock until I realize I’m going to be late for work. I quickly throw together a bagel and cream cheese and make a coffee to go.

“Thank you,” I say to no one in particular, shrugging. This puzzle can wait until later. I dash down the stairs, past thelocksmiths installing new locks, and into my car. It starts immediately, and I shake my head, a smile plastered on my face.

The morning goes by in a blur of deliveries, but I don’t get lost, lose any packages, or crash my car. I head home and follow my landlord’s instructions, retrieving my new key from my mailbox.

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