The Home that was Never Mine

Two guards stand at attention outside the apartment complex, their prim suits and serious expressions unbudging as I enter the revolving door between them. The lobby I enter is luxurious, a pool with koi and a trickling waterfall tucked into its side, a collection of expensive looking velvet chairs clustered around the back. I catch the eye of the doorman standing by the elevators.

“Claude Ashworth,” I tell him. “I’ve come to collect my key.”

The man narrows his eyes at me, tugging on his collar. He coughs into a gloved hand.

I fiddle with my watch and then riffle through my wallet. We shake hands. I palm him a Lincoln. Mr. Samuels warned me that this might be happen.

“Glad to have you back, Mr. Ashworth,” the doorman says. “Give me just a moment to retrieve your key.”

He disappears into a back office, tapping a keycard onto the small security panel on the side, leaving me alone with my thoughts for a couple minutes. I glance out at the street. There are the two guards, their backs facing me now, and a couple pedestrians walking by. No suspicious loiterers. The cars parked around here were all here before I arrived. Perhaps one of them was waiting here for me to arrive, but I’ve told none of the Najbreits where my home is. Odds are good that I am unobserved here, though I wouldn’t put it past Vidocq to have checked through all the property records in the city just to figure out which apartment is mine. He is nothing if not tenacious.

The doorman emerges from the office with a key in his hand. He hands it to me with a small smile on his face.

“This key’s been in the office for decades,” he says. “The last doorman told me the story, but I never thought that this day would ever come.”

“There is no story,” I say quietly. “I’ve just been away for a long time.”

“That’s right, chief,” he says with a wink.

He calls the elevator down with a press of the button, and then presses the floor for me, before stepping out of the elevator. It’s a silent ride up. I fiddle with the cold metal key in my hand, staring at the rust stains coating its bronze surface. Strangely, I feel a dull sort of anticipation in my chest as the elevator nears the nineteenth floor. This is another home that I’m returning to, even though I’ve never set foot in it before.

The front door turns out to be a fairly standard wooden one, surprisingly nondescript compared to the gilded serpents embossed onto the door on the unit opposite mine. I stick the key into the lock and give it a couple turns, stepping into the apartment. I’ve seen pictures of this place before, and it looks exactly the same now.

A number of framed family photos sit in the foyer, younger versions of ‘me’ smiling next to my ‘parents.’ They look authentic enough that I think they might be real. Surely Mr. Samuel didn’t stage all of these photos just for me?

The living room holds no real surprises, a widescreen 4k television and a long couch, two coffee tables on the side, the curtains drawn tight. All seems to be in order. I casually walk up to the couch, taking a seat on it, and pull it out my phone, before I pause.

I look down at the armrests. Free of dust. Somebody’s been here recently.

Mr. Samuel said that nobody else had access to this place. Perhaps he’s visited the apartment recently, but… why, if so?

I get up and head into the adjoining dining room. There’s a sheet of paper lying on the tall dining table, all crumpled up. I pick it up, slowly unfolding it. As expected, it is blank. I take a long look at the creases of the paper. Mr. Samuel was here recently, then. A small ring stain on the table catches my attention next. It looks old, but not ancient. Something from the past year? I file away the information in my head, keeping an eye out for other details that might be important.

I venture into the kitchen next. On a whim, I open the fridge up, and find that it’s stocked with a number of non-perishables. Apples and potatoes and bottles of water… I check the pantry and see the array of beans and rice and honey there, and I think I’m starting to get the idea. The coffee machine sits unplugged. I do a quick check through the cabinets, find nothing else of note, and head into the master bedroom next.

The king-sized bed is made up, the small knick-knacks on the dresser seeming almost out of place from their disarranged state. I take a closer look at them. A couple coins, a pen, a Broadway ticket stub from two years ago… Claude Ashworth was supposed to be at this show, I recall. So someone actually went? Mr. Samuel? I stroke my chin, puzzled.

Then, I open up the closet to reveal a wardrobe half full of clothes, most of which look my size. But it’s the other half of the closet that catches my attention. It’s occupied by a gleaming silver safe, seven combination dials guarding its contents from my curious hands. I give the dials a few experimental spins, but when the door doesn’t open after a couple seconds, I sit back on the bed, staring at the safe.

Mr. Samuel never mentioned this in his notes. Why not?

And what lays within that safe?