Chapter 1 - THE WEEKEND DIDN’T END AT THE DOOR
For exactly sixteen minutes after I disconnected the hallway speaker, I believed the problem was over.
That was adorable.
I had just pulled out of the Target parking lot when my phone started vibrating again.
Megan.
Decline.
Mom.
Decline.
Jason.
Interesting.
I let that one ring too.
Then came the family group chat.
Dad:
Megan, why did you tell Jason’s parents Caleb offered his apartment?
Cousin Dave:
Wait. She said he OFFERED?
Uncle Rob:
I’d like to formally volunteer my garage for absolutely nobody.
Then Megan:
Everyone needs to stop making this a bigger deal than it is. Caleb has two bedrooms and he’s alone this weekend.
I nearly laughed.
There it was.
My apartment was apparently unused inventory whenever my son was with his mother.
I reached home twenty minutes later.
The hallway was empty.
Luggage gone.
No Megan.
No in-laws.
But the camera log showed something I did not like.
At 5:41 p.m., after I disconnected, Jason had tried the door himself.
Not violently.
He leaned toward the smart lock.
Examined it.
Then turned to Megan.
“What code does he use?”
Megan answered:
“Mom probably has it.”
No.
Mom did not have a code.
Nobody did.
That was the point.
Then Megan said:
“He always gives Mom access.”
Always.
Something about the certainty in her voice bothered me.
I opened my apartment.
Everything was exactly as I left it.
Still, I checked.
Office.
Bedroom.
Liam’s room.
Closets.
Desk drawers.
Nothing disturbed.
Of course not.
New lock.
Then my phone buzzed.
Jules.
My ex-wife.
Did you know Megan has been using your address for packages?
I stopped.
Typed:
What?
Three dots.
Then:
Liam mentioned Aunt Megan gets boxes at Dad’s sometimes. I assumed you knew.
My stomach tightened.
I walked toward the entryway closet.
There was a stack of unopened mail I had been meaning to sort.
Mostly junk.
Apartment notices.
A catalog.
Then one envelope.
Not mine.
Megan Walsh.
My address.
I stared.
Another.
Same.
Then another.
Different company.
Credit card.
I did not open them.
I photographed the fronts.
Then searched my email for package notifications.
Three deliveries over the past four months had been picked up from the building package room by “authorized household member.”
I had never authorized Megan.
I called the building manager.
“Caleb?”
“Hey, Martin. Weird question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Has my sister ever picked up packages here?”
Pause.
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“How?”
“She had your spare key.”
“That shouldn’t matter.”
“No, but she told the desk she was staying with you temporarily.”
Silence.
“When?”
“Couple times.”
“Did I ever confirm that?”
Another pause.
“No.”
Martin’s voice changed.
“I’m realizing I should have called.”
“Yes.”
Then:
“What exactly did she pick up?”
“I’ll pull the logs.”
Ten minutes later, he emailed me.
Seven package pickups.
Not three.
Seven.
One was from a luxury retailer.
Two from electronics companies.
One from something called Northwest Home Furnishings.
And three from financial institutions.
My stomach dropped.
The smart lock had stopped Megan from entering my apartment.
But apparently, she had been using my address long before she tried to take over the weekend.
I sat down at the kitchen table.
Pizza forgotten.
Laptop open.
Then Jason called again.
This time, I answered.
“Caleb.”
He sounded embarrassed.
“Hey.”
“I’m sorry about tonight.”
“That’s a start.”
“Megan told us you agreed.”
I stared at the wall.
“What exactly did she say?”
“That you were going away for the weekend and offered us the place.”
Of course.
“She told your parents?”
“Yes.”
“She told them I had a guest suite?”
I looked at my second bedroom.
Liam’s room.
Bunk bed.
Lego bins.
Toy train table.
“Yeah.”
I laughed once.
“No guest suite.”
Jason sounded mortified.
“I know that now.”
Then his voice lowered.
“There’s something else.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“She told my parents this apartment is partly hers.”
I went completely still.
“What?”
“She said your parents helped buy it and that one day it’ll probably be split between you.”
I almost dropped the phone.
“It’s a rental.”
Silence.
“What?”
“I rent.”
Jason did not speak.
I continued:
“My parents do not own this apartment.”
Longer silence.
Then:
“She told everyone your parents bought it as an investment.”
I closed my eyes.
This was no longer an entitled sister asking for a weekend.
Megan had built an entire fictional property portfolio around my lease.
“Jason.”
“Yeah?”
“What else has she told people belongs to her?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
May you like
And that silence told me there was much more.
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