*Lucky, Indeed*
“Emily, let me explain!” gasped William, breathless on her doorstep.
“What do you want from me? Go sort it out with your superiors!”
“You don’t understand. Forgive me—*you* don’t understand. Please, lock your doors and call the police. Just trust me!”
Emily stared in bewilderment as William sprinted away. What on earth was this about? Why would an ordinary repairman act so strangely?
Then came the noise from the floor below—shouting, shattering glass, and William’s desperate cry: *”Emily, run!”*
She slammed the door shut. Though confused, she obeyed. Two bolts slid into place, the key turned, and with trembling fingers, she dialed 999.
A knock. Emily flinched, clutching the phone to her chest. *Let this be over,* she prayed.
“Sweetheart, you in there? We can hear you. Open up nice and easy, and we won’t hurt you—promise,” came a rough voice.
Emily held her breath. The voices faded, replaced by scraping—someone working the lock from the outside.
“She’s jammed the key. Listen, don’t make this harder. Open up!”
“Go away! I’ve called the police!” she blurted, then clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Now that wasn’t smart, love,” the voice sneered. “Lads, let’s go. We’ll be back, yeah?”
Footsteps retreated down the stairs. Silence swallowed the flat. Her ears rang as she slid down the wall, phone still gripped tight.
Another knock. A whimper escaped her—until:
“Open up, police!”
Seated at the kitchen table, Emily relayed her story to the officers. Her hands shook.
“Tell us about this William. Where’d you meet him?” asked the sergeant, his tone sharp.
“Six months ago, I bought a washing machine. Last month, it leaked. The shop sent me to the service centre—William was assigned.”
“You’d never met before?”
“Of course not! First time was when he came to fix it.”
“So you let a stranger into your home?”
“It was an *official* service call! I didn’t just invite some random bloke in,” she snapped.
And why would she doubt him? William had arrived punctually, dressed in company uniform, tools in tow. He’d inspected the machine, taken notes, and typed up a report—all proper. Later, she’d signed the form. Nothing seemed amiss.
“Good as new!” he’d said, then handed her a slip of paper.
“What’s this?”
“My number. In case it acts up again. Service requests take ages—call me direct, and I’ll come straightaway.”
She’d exhaled. Reasonable, given how long repairs took.
But days later, the machine leaked again. William returned, assuring her it was free of charge.
“All done. Hope I’m not needed again,” he’d said, wiping his hands.
“So do I. Thank you!”
Relieved, Emily put the ordeal behind her. William never overstepped—no odd messages, no reason to worry. Until, weeks later, the machine failed once more. This time, his number rang out.
Frustrated, she mopped the floor and cursed, slamming the machine’s door. *”Bloody useless thing!”*
The service centre was baffled. “William reported it fixed. You say he came back? We’ve no record…”
“He said this model’s faulty—that calling him direct was quicker.”
Something was wrong. A new repairman was booked, but not till tomorrow. The operator assured her William’s absence was unusual—no prior complaints.
Then, the knock. William himself, begging her to bar the door and call for help.
*”That’s all I know,”* Emily finished.
“Did you chat during the repairs?”
“No. Why would I? I just asked if he needed anything.”
“You mentioned his tools?” The constable smirked.
“Well, they don’t carry *towels*, do you? Have *you* ever had a washer leak? Water goes everywhere when they loosen the valves—”
The officers exchanged glances. Emily caught it.
“What’s happening? Explain it to me! Those men threatened to come *back*—who *are* they?”
“We suspect William’s tied to a string of burglaries. Scouts take jobs like his—they case homes, note layouts. Even a bathroom tells them plenty,” the sergeant added, seeing her confusion. “Toothbrushes, toiletries—it reveals who lives there.”
Emily went cold. Those men had been thieves.
The constable stood, sliding a form toward her. “Sign here, here, and here. We’ll be in touch.”
“Wait!” She grabbed his wrist, half-hysterical. “You’re leaving me alone? They’ll *return*—what do I do?”
“Stay calm. We’ve got it handled,” the sergeant said wearily. She released the constable’s arm, collapsing into her chair.
“Lock up,” he murmured.
The officers’ loud farewells jerked her back to the present. She bolted the door, grateful she’d splurged on a sturdy lock. Yet fear lingered—every creak painted fresh horrors in her mind.
Friends arrived that evening—her mate Sarah and a married couple. No one laughed off her panic. They suggested a board game to distract her.
Reluctantly, Emily agreed. Still, she flinched at every sound—until her phone rang. An unknown number.
“Put it on speaker,” Sarah urged.
“Hello? Emily Whitmore?”
“Y-yes?”
“Sergeant Dowling. We spoke earlier. Good news—we’ve got your man.”
“What?”
“William. Caught on CCTV. As suspected, he wasn’t just a repairman. Marked flats for his crew. You helped us—if he hadn’t warned you…” He paused. “You’ll need to give a statement. Stay in town, keep any texts or calls. Goodnight.”
The line died. Emily sat frozen. Those men had known William tipped her off.
“Bit romantic, in a way,” Sarah mused.
Emily didn’t agree. She’d learned smiles and courtesy could mask betrayal—that trust was a currency thieves spent freely.
But one question haunted her: if William cared only for profit, why had he rushed to her door to sound the alarm?
