Page 8 of Stroke of Fate

Mom: I gave them your apartment number this morning.

As my fingers fly across the keyboard, the phone rings. I quickly slide my finger across the answer bar.

“Hey, there’s nothing here,” I say, trying to keep my voice level and not give in to the panic I can feel bubbling beneath my skin.

Nothing inside the box is valuable in monetary terms, but it’s still mine.

“Hey, honey.” My mom’s calm voice greets me. “Are you sure you’re not seeing it?”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I take a calming breath. She’s just trying to be helpful, I remind myself.

“Yes, I’m sure.” There are only so many places a box that size can be.

“You don’t think someone stole it, do you?” Her voice drips with concern at the possibility.

Considering this building is owned by the university and only rented to students, the idea hadn’t even crossed my mind. The thought of one student stealing from another somehow feels wrong. Then again, if it’s not here, it must be somewhere else, either by accident or on purpose.

“I don’t know.” Then it suddenly hits me. “Wait, what number did you give them?”

I hear papers shuffling on the other end of the line, and her voice picks up again. “Apartment 408…”

The rest of her sentence fades into the background as I swallow down a groan, dropping my head back against the door. Mystery solved.

“Mom,” I say as calmly as I can. “I’m apartment 404, not 408.”

“What? I could have sworn it was 408.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I honestly thought I had it correct.” The guilt in her voice hits me square in the chest, and I immediately feel the need to put her at ease. After all, my parents have been so supportive during this whole move that it wouldn’t be fair to blame her for such a simple mistake. I should’ve double-checked that she had the correct number instead of assuming.

I remind myself it’s just stuff. Everything can be replaced. “Don’t worry. I’ll go by there and see if they have it.”

“Maybe they were kind enough to keep it for you,” she says, sounding hopeful.

“Yeah, maybe,” I murmur feeling less optimistic.

“Call me if they give you any trouble.” She pauses, seeming to think better of it. “Or perhaps call your dad.”

“Definitely,” I smile. My mom and I both avoid confrontation at all costs, while my dad, the attorney, excels at it.

After reassuring her again that I’ll be fine retrieving my things, I end the call.

Pushing off my front door, I take a few steps down the hallway until I reach the correct door.

Suddenly struck by a bout of nerves for some unknown reason, I take a moment to think about what I’m going to say. I don’t even know why I’m nervous. It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong by asking for my stuff back. But mentally preparing always makes me feel more in control of a situation.

So, I’ll introduce myself, apologize for the mix-up, say a quick thank you, and be on my way with my things. Easy-peasy.

Feeling more confident, I quickly rap my knuckles against the door and wait.

Hearing the faint click of the lock turning, I plaster a smile on my face as the door swings open.

“Hi, I’m—”

The words I rehearsed die on my tongue. My throat goes dry, and the corners of my mouth drop.

Shit.

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