**A Stroke of Luck, Indeed**
“Lucy, let me explain!” gasped Edward, breathless on the doorstep.
“What do you want from me? Sort it out with your boss!”
“You don’t understand. Forgive me… *You* don’t understand. Please, lock all the doors and call the police. Just trust me!”
Lucy stared, bewildered, as Edward vanished down the corridor. What did any of it mean? Why was an ordinary repairman acting so strangely?
Then came the noise from the floor below—raised voices, shattering glass, and Edward’s shout: *”Lucy, run!”*
She bolted the door, though none of it made sense. Two deadbolts turned, the key left in the lock on her side. Her trembling hands dialled 999.
A knock. She flinched, clutching the phone to her chest, praying it would all end.
“Sweetheart, you in there? We can hear ya. Open up nice and easy—we won’t hurt ya, promise,” came a rough voice through the wood.
Lucy held her breath. Silence fell, replaced by the scrape of metal. Someone was working the lock from the outside.
“Stupid cow’s gone and jammed the key. Listen—don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Open. Now.”
“Go away! I’ve called the police!” she cried—then clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Wrong move, love,” the voice sneered. “Lads, let’s scarper. We’ll be back, understand?”
Footsteps receded. The quiet that followed was deafening. Her ears rang as she slid down the wall, phone still gripped tight.
Another knock. A whimper escaped her—then relief.
“Open up—police!”
—
At the kitchen table, Lucy recounted everything to the officers. The constable scribbled notes while she trembled.
“Who is Edward? Where did you meet?” asked the second officer—a sergeant, judging by his crisp commands.
“Six months ago, I bought a washer. Brand-new. Last month, it leaked. The shop sent me to a service centre. Edward was assigned as the technician.”
“Had you met before?”
“No! First time was when he came to my flat.”
“So you invited a stranger into your home?”
“Don’t be daft—it was an official repair! Their *employee*,” she snapped, flushing.
And why *wouldn’t* she trust him? Edward had arrived promptly, tall and tidy in his uniform, tool kit in hand. He’d inspected the machine, made notes, typed up a report. She’d even signed it—proper company paperwork. Nothing amiss.
“Good as new!” he’d said cheerfully, then slipped her a slip of paper.
“What’s this?”
“My number. Not—not like *that*,” he’d added hastily at her frown. “Sometimes faults recur. Service bookings take ages; call me direct, I’ll come straightaway.”
It made sense. The centre *had* taken a week to dispatch him.
When the washer leaked again days later, she called Edward directly.
“I’ll check it. No charge,” he’d said.
“I don’t understand what’s wrong.”
“Don’t fret. This brand’s trouble—trust me.”
After the fix, he’d wiped his hands. “All done. Hope I’m not needed again.”
“So do I. Thank you!”
Relief—until the next leak. The next frantic mop-up. Edward’s number? Disconnected.
The service centre was baffled. “Edward reported this resolved. You say he came back? There’s no record…”
“It’s *this model*, he said! Phoning him was quicker!”
Odd, all of it. A new technician was scheduled—for *tomorrow*. The agent promised to “look into” Edward’s disappearance, though he’d “never caused trouble before.”
Then the knocking. Edward, wild-eyed, begging her to bar the door.
—
“That’s all,” Lucy whispered. “I know nothing else.”
“Did you speak much during repairs?”
“No! Why would I? Just asked if he needed anything.”
“Tools were his own?” The constable smirked.
“They don’t carry *towels*, do they?” she retorted. “When they unscrew the valve, water sprays *everywhere*—”
The officers exchanged a glance. Lucy caught it.
“What’s happening? Explain! Those men said they’d *return*—who *are* they?”
“Still piecing it together. But Edward’s linked to a string of robberies.”
“Nothing was stolen!”
“*Yet*. We suspect scouts take service jobs—case homes, note details. They’re thorough. Toothbrushes, toiletries—even a bathroom tells a story.”
The shock left her hollow. Those men at her door? Thieves.
The constable slid her forms. “Sign here, here, and here. We’ll call you in. Stay reachable.”
“Wait—” Her laugh bordered on hysterical as she seized his wrist. “You’re *leaving* me? They’ll *come back*!”
“We’ve got it handled,” the sergeant said wearily. She released the constable, sinking onto the chair.
“Lock up,” he murmured.
The slam of the front door jolted her into action—bolts thrown, chains latched. She thanked her past self for splurging on that sturdy door. Yet fear lingered.
Friends arrived that evening—Tom and a married couple—bearing wine and forced cheer.
“Let’s play a board game,” suggested Sarah.
“Brilliant!” Tom agreed, too brightly.
Lucy half-heartedly joined, flinching at every creak. But slowly, the game drew her in—until her phone rang. An unknown number.
“Put it on speaker,” Sarah urged.
“Hello? Hello. Lucy Whitmore?”
“Y-yes?”
“Sergeant Holloway. We met earlier. Thought you’d want to know—we’ve got your friend.”
“*What?*”
“Edward. Caught on CCTV. As suspected, he wasn’t just a repairman. He tagged flats for his crew. There’ll be a trial. You helped us. If he hadn’t warned you…” A pause. “Stay in town. Preserve any messages. Someone will contact you. Goodnight.”
The line died. Lucy sat frozen.
“Well,” Sarah mused, “that’s almost… romantic.”
Romance was the last thing on Lucy’s mind. She’d learned that kindness could mask betrayal—that trust was a currency others might counterfeit.
But one question haunted her: If Edward sought only profit, why risk himself to save her?
