“Lucky Me,” She Thought
“Emily, let me explain!” gasped William, breathless on her doorstep.
“What do you want? Sort it out with your boss!”
“You don’t understand. I’m sorry… Please, lock the doors and call the police. Just trust me!”
Emily stared, baffled, as William bolted away. What on earth was going on? Since when did appliance repairmen behave like characters from a spy film?
Then came the noise—shouting from downstairs, glass shattering, and William’s desperate cry:
“Emily, run!”
She slammed the door, flipped both deadbolts, and jammed her key in for good measure. Hands trembling, she dialed 999.
A knock. Emily flinched, clutching her phone to her chest like a lifeline.
“Hey love, we know you’re in there. Open up—we won’t hurt you,” crooned a voice slick with false charm.
She held her breath. Silence. Then—scraping. Someone was picking the lock.
“Stupid cow’s blocked it. Don’t make this harder on yourself!”
“Go away! I’ve called the police!” she blurted, then instantly clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Bad move, sweetheart,” the voice chuckled. “Lads, let’s scarper. We’ll be back.”
Their footsteps faded. The silence was deafening. Emily slid down the wall, phone still gripped in her sweaty palm.
Another knock. A whimper escaped her—until:
“Police! Open up!”
——
At the kitchen table, Emily recounted the madness to a constable. His sergeant watched, arms crossed.
“Who *is* William? How’d you meet?”
“Six months ago, I bought a washing machine. It leaked. The shop sent a repairman—William.”
“You let a stranger into your flat?”
“It was a *proper* service! He had a uniform, a toolbox, paperwork!”
And he’d been *polite*. Tall, tidy, jotting notes like a professional. Even handed her a receipt—with his *personal* number scribbled at the bottom.
“Just in case it acts up again. Faster than going through the call centre,” he’d said.
Sure enough, the machine leaked *again*. William returned, fixed it, and left with a smile: “Hope I don’t see you again!”
Then—third leak. His number? Disconnected. The service centre was *very* confused.
“This bloke William marked your place as ‘done.’ You’re saying he came back *unofficially*?”
That’s when William had appeared, wild-eyed, begging her to barricade herself.
——
The sergeant leaned in. “We think he’s a scout for a burglary ring. They get jobs like this—case the place, note routines, *how many toothbrushes are in the holder*.”
Emily’s blood ran cold.
“Sign here, here… We’ll be in touch.”
“Wait!” She grabbed the constable’s sleeve. “You’re *leaving* me? They *said they’d come back*!”
“Stay sharp. Lock up.”
Her mates arrived that evening—Tom and a married couple. They played Monopoly, forcing laughs. Then—her phone rang. Unknown number.
“Emily Whitmore?” growled the detective. “William’s been nabbed. Cameras caught him tagging flats for his crew. If he hadn’t warned you…” His pause said it all. “We’ll need you to testify.”
As the call ended, her friend sighed. “Kinda romantic, in a twisted way.”
Emily disagreed. Friendly smiles could hide wolves.
But one question haunted her: *If William was in it for the money… why did he save me?*
