A new couple returns from a vacation to find that everything they own, even the forks, has been stolen.
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When they swung open the door, the apartment was empty. The end table Maryanne had regretted buying because she was sure she could have found it cheaper somewhere else was gone. The mess of thumb drives Glen had stacked atop the end table to ensure he’d remember to consolidate them, but never did, was gone. The framed photo print of Imelda Marcos’s shoe collection that had hung over the end table--the first real art Maryanne had ever bought--was gone. The small motion-activated camera Glen had placed atop the frame to secretly record their guests’s reactions to the photo print was gone. Their refrigerator, their coat closet, and their medicine cabinet had been cleaned out. Everything they owned was gone.
The moment before they’d opened the door, Glen had picked up Maryanne to cross the threshold. He continued to hold her aloft as they surveyed the empty apartment.
They’d gotten “mostly married,” as they decided to call it, yesterday in the back of a rowboat. Their friend Ray had been rowing, so they figured that made him enough of a ship’s captain to marry them. On the flight back, they agreed it would be stupid for Glen to carry Maryanne over the threshold, which immediately made them want to do it. They planned to cross the threshold, ditch their bags, grab a quick shower and change of clothes, then head over to city hall. All they could do now was cross the threshold.
Glen put Maryanne down slowly. She was shaking.
“Is this real?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Glen replied, grinning slightly at the blank slate had taken the place of their home. “It’s kind of amazing though.”
“All of our stuff gone?” Maryanne said.
Glen shook his head, “It’s not gone. More likely some kind of stunt.”
“Stunt?”
“What else could it be?” he said, gesturing around the space as they walked. “They took EVERYTHING. The hangers. The extension cords.” He paused in their kitchen and opened the silverware drawer. “Our forks are gone. Why would someone steal our forks?”
“Do you know what those forks are worth?!” Maryanne replied.
Glen knew, as did everyone who followed Maryanne’s tumblr, to the dollar, what the forks were worth. When Maryanne moved into their apartment, she brought two moving vans packed with a masterfully assembled collection of chic furniture and accessories. Each item represented hours of considered hunting through the most-respected design blogs and social media accounts and hours more spent sifting online and offline distributors, retailers, and liquidators before finally proclaiming to her online following, which was robust, that she’d found something remarkable for an equally remarkable value. She’d outfitted an apartment worthy of a successful tech CEO with the budget of a tech CEO’s assistant, which she was.
“I’m not saying they’re not good forks,” Glen continued, “I’m just saying no robber is coming for the forks. We’ll get it back.”
Maryanne didn’t reply as Glen put his arm around her. She let her gaze fall to the floor and used a foot to trace the faded outline of where one of her couches used to be.
Finally she said, “What about Ava McLaren?”
“You think?”
“You’re saying this is a stunt,” Maryanne continued, easing herself down to the floor. “That’s her thing, right?”
When Glen moved in, he brought two suitcases, one a mess of unfolded clothes and the other a mess of miscellaneous micro lenses, wires, circuit boards, and sensors. The clothes were a mishmash of suits, shirts, and jeans that held no value to Glen other than helping him blend in while installing the gear from the other suitcase. The gear itself held no value either, until Glen fashioned some of it into one of his signature cameras. They were unique creations he’d started making in design school, highly regarded by a very (very) niche audience for their usefulness in film production, surveillance, art projects and the gray areas that lie in between. Maryanne had met Glen because she’d wanted to add one of his cameras to her collection of covetables.
When he had an assignment, Glen was paid well. But every month Maryanne’s half of the rent was a certainty. Every month Glen’s half of the rent was a theory, that a mishmash of low-paying surveillance-installation or production gigs found through craigslist, Reddit, and his online circle of peers (Maryanne called them his perverts), would produce his half of the rent. And every month, it did, but just barely.
So while they were on vacation, Maryanne had suggested they use an apartment sharing site to rent their place to a woman named Ava McClaren, someone they’d both heard of before, but neither could remember from where. She’d listed her occupation as “provocateur” in her profile, which had been something of a red flag, but her user rating was far higher than anyone else who had replied to their posting. And now their apartment was empty.
Maryanne let out a long exhale and said, “Would you please sit down next to me on our couch that isn’t here anymore?”
A moment after he did, Maryanne pulled her phone out and snapped a photo of their empty apartment.
“I’m posting this everywhere and tagging Ava,” she said.
“You think it’s smart to accuse her on social?”
“Please,” Maryanne said, sounding offended, “My following would crush her following.”
—————————
They had renter’s insurance, although they called it “coolsurance” because it was through an insurance startup Maryanne had heard about from her CEO boss. The startup, which had already amassed millions in its first round of funding, connected independent agents throughout the country with customers seeking a more hands-on experience. Glen had liked that it was the cheapest available insurance option, and you could FaceTime your agent. Maryanne had liked that their agent, Brad, who was from a small town, had researched them both online and seemed to think that they were much more important and successful than they actually were.
“So this rental site,” Brad said, “You get matched up. Like, you’re dating?”
As was his custom during their FaceTime chats, Brad maintained an almost supernaturally warm smile, one that Glen and Maryanne had both attributed to his occupation and small-town background. But as the FaceTime progressed, a tight squint gradually entered Brad’s gaze, turning grin into grimace.
“It’s like a compatibility check,” Maryanne replied, “Rent your place to like-minded people.”
“But if the whole idea is that you’re gone while they’re there, who cares?” Brad asked.
“I think the idea is to create a sense that you’re renting to people like you,” Glen explained, “Makes it feel less creepy.”
“The site though, just so I’m clear, how do you get matched?”
“I never looked into it,” Glen replied. “But I imagine there’s some algorithm that—“
“That bitch,” Maryanne interrupted, looking down at her phone, “She fucking liked it.”
She held her phone up to Glen’s, which they were using to FaceTime, so that Brad could see Maryanne’s post. Ava McClaren, who hadn’t yet returned any of their panicked calls, texts, or emails, had given their empty apartment a like in every social channel Maryanne had posted to.
“Yeah, she definitely liked it,” Brad said as the phones were decoupled. “But how do you figure she’d do that if she’s also the one who robbed you?”
“We don’t know that she robbed us in the traditional sense,” Glen said, “We’re thinking the whole thing might just be a stunt.”
“A stunt like, she’s like a pro skater or something?”
“Hey Brad,” Maryanne said, still looking at her phone. “Have we answered all the necessary questions for the claim? Because it’s already 5 and I’m pretty sure best practice is to get it submitted during business hours day of.”
“Maryanne’s kind of an expert on renter’s insurance,” Glen explained.
“Yeah I know,” Brad said, “I remember that from your Tumblr.”
And then Brad did something he’d never done before. He looked over his shoulder to make sure that no one at his office was nearby. When his gaze returned to them, he wasn’t smiling.
“And that, unfortunately, could be an issue,” he continued, “At some point in the claim, there’s a possibility the police and definitely someone here will do a quick online scrub of your online profiles,” Brad explained, “They’ll be looking for certain keywords, especially anything related to insurance.”
“Oh my God,” Maryanne chuckled, “Brad. You think this is insurance fraud?”
“Of course not,” Brad said, reactivating his grimace smile, “But try to see the situation as others might see it. A woman fills her apartment with items she bought well below their reimbursement value. Then one day she files a claim for every item at its full reimbursement value.”
Brad glanced over his shoulder again, then said, “You’re certain you’ve got no prior connection to this woman.”
“None,” Maryanne said emphatically, “We just have a number and an email address.”
Brad was silent for a moment, then said, “No home or business address?”
Glen and Maryanne shook their heads.
Brad nodded, “Because if you did, I would never recommend,” his voice quieter still, “that you physically confront someone who you suspect may have burglarized your home.”
—————————
“There’s one thing we haven’t considered,” Glen said as they walked down the hallway.
“What’s that?” Maryanne replied.
“Time travel. Dimensional travel too, I suppose. Entering a time or dimension where for whatever reason that apartment is empty instead of full.”
“I think I’d remember booking a trip on a time machine,” Maryanne replied, “I’d have posted a photo, at least.”
“Who says you need a machine?” Glen continued, “You’ve felt deja vu: ‘I’ve done this before, I’ve been here before, but I remember it just a little differently.’ The moment we stepped through our door,” he said, “Everything felt different. Same people, same space, but different.”
“Thank you for not sharing any of these theories with Brad,” Maryanne replied.
They had used Ava’s linkedin profile to find this address. Each of her online profiles was associated with a different address, but this seemed the most recent, on the basement level of a chic shared-work space. The main floors of the shared-work space were a thoughtfully lit curation of glossy tables, ergonomic chairs, and plush cushions.
The basement level was just cracked cement, from the floors to the walls, to the ceiling. The only indication that someone was using the basement as a work space was Ava’s business cards, one hastily taped to the elevator, and the other taped to the door they had just reached. Glen raised a fist to knock on the door, but then paused, noticing something above the doorframe.
“More deja vu,” Glen said as he craned his neck to get a better look. “Apparently I’ve been here before. Even though I don’t recall ever being here before.”
Maryanne also craned her neck to see what Glen was looking at, then spied it above the doorjamb, a tiny surveillance camera with the look of one of Glen’s bespoke creations.
“Is that one of yours?” Maryanne asked.
“I’d need to open it up to be sure,” Glen said, “But it looks like it. Not sure how that’s possible though.”
Maryanne banged on the door, then turned the knob after a moment with no answer, but it was locked.
“Fuck,” Maryanne said, then grinned slightly, realizing, “You can unlock this, can’t you?”
He could, easily. During the one year of college he completed before dropping out, Glen had apprenticed with a locksmith to help cover expenses. He’d broken into Maryanne’s apartment on their second date after she’d misplaced her keys. To ensure she didn’t get the wrong idea, he had explained that he only defeated locks when the rightful owner of whatever was on the other side of the lock needed him to.
Glen reminded her, “It’s not really a can question. It’s more of a should question.”
“Of course. You definitely should,” Maryanne said.
“What if that camera records me doing it? What if the alarm that’s most likely connected to it gets triggered?”
“And, what if,” Maryanne replied, “All of our stuff is sitting on the other side of this door?”
———————
Their stuff wasn’t on the other side of the door.
There was a woman wearing a headset though, who tried to push the door shut on them almost as soon as Glen opened it. The moment she did, Maryanne pushed back so hard it knocked the woman back into another woman, who as a result knocked into another woman.
The women were part of a circle of 10 women seated in the space, which was as cement-bleak as the hallway. At the center of the circle stood a lone man wearing nothing but snug white briefs. Electrodes attached to his chest and forehead plugged into a laptop that rested on a small table next to him. Just outside the circle of women, two more women wearing headsets balanced near the top of tall ladders and held their phones out to capture footage of the scene.
All 13 of them were now glaring at Glen and Maryanne.
“What the fuck,” a swiftly approaching woman said in a hissing singsong, “I thought you locked the door.” It was Ava McClaren, wearing red sneakers, red jeans, red dress shirt, and a red ribbon in her ponytail of red hair.
“I did lock the door,” the woman with the headset replied, then tilted her head to indicate Glen and Maryanne.
“Okay,” Ava said, and turned to Glen and Maryanne, modulating her delivery as though speaking to small children, “Hi there. We’re shooting. And it’s going out live. So we can’t have any distractions. Okay?”
Maryanne grinned widely and mirrored Ava’s delivery, “Hi. My name’s Maryanne. Do you know who I am?”
“No I don’t,” Ava replied curtly and began to walk away, but stopped when she finally recognized Glen.
“Oh my god,” she said, grinning widely, “Glen?”
Glen grinned back, but there was no recognition in his face.
Ava laughed loudly enough that it once more distracted everyone on set and said, “You really don’t remember.”
Glen looked at her for a long moment, then said, “Abigail?”
“The name my parents gave me,” she replied with a too-somber inflection, “but yes.”
“You look different,” Glen said.
“I am different,” she replied, once more grinning widely at Glen.
“I had no idea,” Glen turned to Maryanne, then back to Ava, “I didn’t make the connection.”
“No,” Maryanne replied, “you never did.”
“Yeah,” Glen replied, then put his arm around Maryanne, “Anyway, this is my fiancee Maryanne, and the apartment you rented this week was ours, and that’s—“
“My fucking print,” Maryanne said, cutting him off.
Indeed, a framed print of Imelda Marcos’s shoe collection hung on the wall just beyond the man and the circle of women. Maryanne started walking toward it, but was quickly cut off by the woman with the headset she’d knocked over moments ago.
“We’re shooting,” she said to Maryanne.
Glen stepped next to Maryanne and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“We should probably wait until they wrap,” he said.
“Yeah,” Maryanne said as she eased her shoulder slowly away from him.
Maryanne was still looking at the print as Ava came around to her other side.
“What do you think, by the way?” Ava said, “The shoot’s part of this ongoing content series we’re creating for a new unisex fragrance. The model’s wired to a lie detector while the women ask him questions about past lovers.”
“I think it’s stupid,” Maryanne replied.
“Really?” Ava said with an interested grin.
“So, I’m assuming you didn’t get any of my calls?” Maryanne asked, “Or my texts?”
Ava laughed, “Oh my god. Getting ready for this? I haven’t checked anything in days.”
“You liked the posts I tagged you in though.”
“Really? Thank god for assistants. What were the posts about?”
“Our apartment.”
“Oh right! Now I know who you are. We were going to do this shoot there actually. But I decided we needed something a little more stark.”
“It’s pretty stark now actually. Someone robbed us while we were gone.”
“Oh my god.”
Maryanne pointed at the print, “They even took my framed print of Imelda Marcos’s shoe collection.”
After a moment Ava forced a smile and chuckled, “Wait. You think I would steal something out of your apartment?”
“You had the key. You had a week. You have my print.”
“Maybe we should talk about this in the hall,” Glen said.
“Are you talking to me or Abigail?” Maryanne asked.
“She’s funny,” Ava said to Glen, “You said she was your fiancee?”
“She is,” Glen replied and stole a glance at Maryanne, who still hadn’t taken her eyes of the print.
Ava leaned toward her and asked, “Have you gone to the police yet?”
“Not yet,” Maryanne replied.
“Because you know it’ll be your word against mine.”
“I’m good with that.”
“Of course the cops won’t care either way. Your real concern is the renting site and your insurance company.”
“What makes you think I have insurance?” Maryanne asked.
“I don’t know a thing about you,” Ava replied, “Would love to keep it that way. But you should know, I have a 5-star elite rating with the site. I rent spaces for clients and shoots almost every week. What’s your rating?”
Maryanne finally turned to look at her. “First-time user,” she replied.
“Hmmm,” Ava said thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Well, you’re more than welcome to stay and look at the print. For a little while.”