Then, one week later, Sophie came back.
She showed up at my door, saw the cat, and exploded. Called me selfish. Said I clearly hadn’t cared about her feelings at all. We fought. Loudly. Then she left. That night, my cat went missing.
I found her the next morning, terrified and crouched under a neighbor’s car. At first, I was sure Sophie had let her out on purpose. But then I realized someone had broken into my apartment. It wasn’t carelessness. It was something else. Something darker.
I felt awful for blaming her. So I tried to make it right—set up a date night. Flowers, dinner, a second chance. That’s when Ruth knocked on my door.
Ruth, who lived two doors down, looked pale and nervous, like she’d rehearsed what she was about to say a dozen times and still hated saying it.
“I saw something,” she whispered. “When your cat got out.”
She explained how she was in her car that morning, getting ready to leave for the pharmacy, when she saw a man running out of my apartment. She thought he was a delivery guy—until she saw him holding what looked like keys. My keys.
“He opened the door wide—like he wanted the cat to leave,” she said. “Then he ran off and met a woman by the bakery. It was Sophie. I recognized her.”
And just like that, it clicked. Sophie still had the spare keys I’d given her months ago. She wasn’t just “checking in.” She’d planned something. Maybe everything.
That night, I didn’t call her. I canceled the date. I sat in the dark with my cat curled against my chest and tried to process the idea that someone I’d loved had orchestrated a break-in.
The next morning, I had the locks changed. I installed a camera, too—facing the front door. The locksmith took one look at my old lock and said, “These? Easy to pop open if you know how.” I didn’t say anything. Just nodded and told him to upgrade everything.
Two days later, Sophie texted: “I’ll come by tomorrow. We should talk.”
She arrived, smiling. Pet the cat. Told me she missed me. I asked her if she still had the spare keys.
“No,” she said, casually. “I tossed them when we argued.”
Lie.
I didn’t call her out. I played along. We had dinner, small talk, then she left. Later that night, I checked the camera.
At 2:15 a.m., a man showed up. Shadowy figure. He tried the lock. He had a key. But it didn’t work—not anymore. After fiddling for half a minute, he gave up and walked away.
I had my answer.
I called her the next day. Told her I wanted to talk.
When she came over, I waited until she was inside, then hit play on the security footage.
She turned pale.
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