They disappear inside. I count down in my head. Three. Two. One.
“Mark?” Brenda’s voice filters through the Ring’s microphone. “The lights aren’t working.”
“Hang on,” Mark replies, his voice growing fainter as he moves away from the door. “Let me check the breaker.”
A minute passes. The door remains open, spilling their conversation onto the porch where the Ring camera captures every word.
“Nothing’s working,” Mark calls back. “The power’s out.”
“Did you forget to pay the bill?” Brenda asks, irritation edging into her voice.
“Me? You handle the utilities.”
I smile as I imagine them standing in the dark hallway, jet-lagged and confused. Corbin pushes past them, phone flashlight activated. His beam sweeps across the living room, then stops.
“Dad?” His voice rises an octave. “Where’s the TV?”
The flashlight beam jerks around wildly now, illuminating empty spaces where furniture used to be.
“What the hell?” Mark’s heavy footsteps pound across the floor.
Sloan screams from the kitchen. “The fridge is gone. Everything’s gone.”
I watch as they spill back onto the front porch, faces pale in the dying November sunlight. Brenda’s hands shake as she clutches at Mark’s sleeve.
“Someone broke in,” she gasps. “Call 911.”
Mark fumbles his phone from his pocket, fingers trembling as he dials. I watch his face contort as he explains the situation to the dispatcher, describing a robbery in progress.
Corbin paces the porch, his own phone gripped tightly in his hand. His brow furrows as something occurs to him. “The Ring camera,” he says suddenly. “We can check the footage.”
Of course Corbin would think of that—the tech guy of the family who couldn’t even launch a successful startup with $50,000 of funding.
I take another sip of my coffee as I watch him tap at his phone, accessing the same app I’m currently using. I know the exact moment he finds the footage from three days ago. His face drains of color, mouth dropping open.
“She… she took everything,” he stammers.
The others crowd around his phone. I can picture the video playing on his screen: me, clipboard in hand, directing the movers as they carefully load the 80-inch TV, the smart fridge, the washer and dryer, the espresso machine. All documented. All organized. All mine.
“Krista did this?” Brenda’s voice breaks on my name. “But why would she—”
“Because she’s crazy,” Sloan cuts in. “I told you she was getting weird.”
Mark takes the phone from Corbin, watching the footage with narrowing eyes. When he looks up, his face is rigid with fury.
“She can’t do this,” he growls. “This is our house.”
I set my phone down on the coffee table of my new apartment and walk to the window. Outside, the November sunset paints the sky in shades of orange and purple. My studio is small, but the light here is beautiful. Clean. Mine.
My phone starts buzzing again. Not the Ring app this time, but actual calls—one after another, the same numbers over and over. No contact names attached. I pick it up and look at the screen: fifty-two missed calls in the span of ten minutes. Then the texts start flowing in from my mother’s number.