What Luck
“Emily, let me explain!” panted William on the doorstep, out of breath.
“What do you want from me? Go sort it out with your boss!”
“You don’t understand. I’m sorry… Please, just lock all the doors and call the police. Trust me!”
Emily stared, bewildered, as William sprinted away. What was going on? Why was a simple repairman acting so strangely?
Then came the noise from downstairs—shouting, shattering glass, and William’s desperate cry.
“Emily, get out!”
She slammed the door without hesitation, heart pounding. Though confused, she followed his warning, turning both bolts and twisting the key in the lock. With trembling fingers, she dialed 999.
A knock startled her. Clutching the phone to her chest, she prayed for it all to end.
“Sweetheart, you in there? We can hear you. Open up, and we won’t hurt ya—promise,” came a rough voice from the other side.
Emily held her breath, silent. The voices stopped, replaced by unsettling scraping. Someone was trying to pick the lock.
“Stupid cow’s jammed the key. Listen—don’t make this harder on yourself. Open. Now.”
“Go away! I’ve called the police!” she blurted, then immediately clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Bad move, love,” the voice sneered. “Lads, we’re off. But we’ll be back. Got it?”
Footsteps thudded down the stairs, fading into silence. The ringing in her ears muffled everything as Emily slid down the wall, phone still gripped tight.
Another knock. She gasped—until a firm voice announced,
“Police! Open up!”
——
Seated at her kitchen table, Emily recounted the ordeal to the constable taking notes. Her hands hadn’t stopped shaking.
“Who’s William, and how do you know him?” asked the officer, clearly the senior of the pair.
“Six months ago, I bought a washing machine—brand new. Last month, it leaked. The shop sent me to their service centre, and William was assigned as the technician.”
“Had you met before?”
“No! I first saw him when he came to fix it.”
“So you let a stranger into your home?”
Emily glared. “It was an *official* service call. He had ID, a uniform, tools—even a work order I signed. Why wouldn’t I trust him?”
And why would she doubt him? William had arrived punctually, polite and professional in his company polo, a hefty toolkit in hand. He’d inspected the machine, taken notes, and filled out the paperwork without a hint of suspicion.
“Good as new!” he’d said afterward, handing her a slip of paper.
“What’s this?”
“My direct number. Company procedures take ages—call me if it acts up again, and I’ll come straight over.”
Relief. It made sense—the original repair request *had* taken a week.
But days later, the machine leaked again. William returned, assuring her it was free of charge.
“Done. Hope you won’t need me again,” he said with a smile.
Neither reached out after—no reason to. Until the third leak, when his phone went dead.
Furious, Emily called the service centre. The agent was baffled: “William logged the job as resolved. He shouldn’t have taken private calls—we’ll look into it.”
That evening, William turned up—begging her to barricade herself.
——
“And that’s all I know,” Emily finished.
“Did you chat much during the repairs?” the constable pressed.
“No. I just asked if he needed anything.”
“His own tools, eh?” The junior officer smirked.
“Well, they don’t carry *towels*, do they?” she snapped. “When they unscrew those valves, water sprays everywhere—”
The officers exchanged a look. Emily tensed.
“What *is* this? Those men threatened to come back!”
“We suspect William’s tied to a burglary ring,” the senior explained. “Scouts take service jobs to case homes—noting occupants, valuables… Even toothbrushes in your bathroom reveal habits.”
Emily paled. Those men had been thieves. William’s politeness, a ruse.
The constable handed her forms. “Sign here. We’ll be in touch.”
“Wait!” She grabbed his sleeve. “You’re leaving me alone? They’ll *return*!”
“We’ve got it covered,” he said tiredly.
As the door shut, Emily triple-locked it, grateful for the sturdy deadbolt. But fear lingered.
Her friends arrived that night—Tom and a married couple—bringing board games to distract her. During a tense round, her phone rang. Unknown number.
“Put it on speaker,” urged her friend.
“Hello? Victoria Ainsworth?”
“Y-yes?”
“Sergeant Wilcox here. We’ve arrested your ‘technician.’ William’s gang targeted homes he scouted. Had he not warned you…” A pause. “You’ll need to testify. Stay available.”
The line went dead. Emily shuddered. Those men *knew* William had tipped her off.
“Bit romantic, really,” her friend mused.
*Romantic?* To Emily, it was a chilling lesson: charm could hide betrayal.
Yet one question haunted her—if William was in it for profit, why risk warning her at all?
