Chapter 3: Locked Out, Called Out

Just then, someone banged on my door.

My heart jumped. That knock. I knew it. Adrenaline shot through me. Too familiar, too insistent.

“Riley! Open up! Let me in!”

Her voice rang through the apartment, shrill and demanding. Classic Marissa. It was like she knew I was inside, even though I’d barely had time to process my second chance. My hands shook as I crept toward the door.

I froze. Could barely breathe. Every hair on my body stood on end. I stared at the door, barely daring to move.

“Come on! Open the door! I know you’re home today. If you don’t open up, I’ll get someone to break the lock.”

She always did this—threatened, pushed, never taking no for an answer. Pushed until you broke. She was a force of nature, and she expected the world to bend to her will.

She wasn’t just threatening—she really would do it.

Rules didn’t apply to her. I’d seen her talk her way into concerts, out of parking tickets, even convince a landlord to repaint an entire apartment for free. If she said she’d break the lock, she meant it.

Ever since we were kids, she’d gotten used to me doing whatever she wanted.

Always her way. Always. I remembered birthday parties where she’d blow out my candles, family picnics where she’d eat the last piece of cake, always with that same entitled grin. She’d never heard the word ‘no’ without turning it into a challenge.

If I didn’t give in, she’d stop at nothing to get her way, always finishing with that fake, sentimental line:

“We grew up together. You’re like family to me. You wouldn’t turn me away, right?”

She was a pro at guilt trips. It worked on everyone—especially me, until now.

Peeking through the peephole, I saw Marissa Lane outside, frowning, impatient.

Arms crossed. Tapping her phone. Impatient as ever. The hallway light cast shadows on her face, making her look older, harder. She was never one for patience.

She pulled out the spare key I’d given her, jammed it into the lock, and twisted—but it didn’t budge.

Guess she didn’t expect that. She muttered something under her breath, frustration written all over her face. I watched as she tried again, rattling the key, but I’d already changed the deadbolt after last time. Lesson learned.

Right then, I really regretted ever trusting her with that key.

Big mistake. I remembered the day I’d handed it over, thinking it was the responsible thing to do—neighbors helping neighbors, friends looking out for each other. Now it felt like a mistake I’d never live down.

“Idiot. Can’t even wait at home for my instructions. Where’d you run off to now?”

Here we go. She grumbled, pulling out her phone.

She always blamed everyone else when things didn’t go her way. I watched her scroll through her contacts, lips pursed in annoyance, as if the universe itself was conspiring against her.

I quickly silenced my own phone, and sure enough, the next second, Marissa Lane was calling.

Of course she called. I watched the screen light up, her name flashing across it. I held my breath, willing it to stop. She was nothing if not persistent.

She called twice, but no one picked up.

She never gave up. I could almost hear her pacing outside, muttering curses, dialing again and again. Each time, I ignored the call, my resolve hardening.

Finally, she lost all patience and dialed again.

This time, my phone didn’t even ring.

I’d switched it to silent, just in time. Through the door, I heard her frustrated sigh, followed by the unmistakable sound of her dialing someone else.

Through the door, I heard her say:

“Hello? Locksmith? I left my keys inside. Can you come open the door?”

I rolled my eyes, knowing exactly how this would play out. Tried to sound calm. Like I’d practiced. I hurried back to my bedroom and dialed 911.

I kept my voice steady, rehearsed. “Hi, I saw through my home security cam that someone’s been hanging around my front door, and it looks like they’re trying to break in. I’m not home right now. Could you send someone to check it out?”

The nearest locksmith lived in our building. Less than five minutes after her call, he showed up at my door.

I heard the elevator ding, then the low murmur of voices in the hallway. The locksmith’s toolbox clanked against the floor, his footsteps echoing. Marissa always worked fast when she wanted something.

Good luck, buddy. He fiddled with the lock, looking puzzled.

I pressed my ear to the door, listening as he jiggled the handle, muttering to himself. He was good, but not good enough to get past a deadbolt from the inside.

“Miss, is there anyone inside? The door seems to be deadbolted.”

His tone was cautious, maybe even a little suspicious. Maybe he’d seen this kind of mess before. Marissa’s response was pure impatience.

Hearing that, Marissa Lane kicked the door hard, twice.

She never knew when to quit. The thud reverberated through the apartment, rattling a picture frame on the wall. She never did have much self-control, especially when frustrated.

“Riley Harper, are you in there? Open up!”

Her voice was shrill, almost desperate now. I pictured her glaring at the door, fists clenched, ready to throw a tantrum if she didn’t get her way.

“Did you hear me?”

The third kick was so hard I worried she’d leave a dent. Wouldn’t be the first time. I pressed my hand against the door, bracing myself for whatever came next.

“Forget it, just break the lock. I’ll pay extra.”

She never cared about the cost when it wasn’t her money. I could hear the exasperation in her voice, the way she snapped her fingers at people like they were waiters in a diner.

“Alright.” The locksmith agreed immediately, grabbing his toolbox.

He was all business, eager for a quick payday. But he hesitated, glancing over his shoulder as if he knew something wasn’t quite right.

I held the deadbolt from the inside, refusing to give them a chance to turn it from outside.

My palms were slick with sweat, but I didn’t let go. Not this time.

“Huh?” The locksmith frowned. “Why won’t it turn?”

He sounded genuinely confused now, tugging at the lock with growing frustration. I bit my lip, praying he’d give up before things got any worse.

Just then, the elevator dinged.

Please let it be the cops. The sound was sharp, unexpected. I froze, listening as footsteps approached. Relief and anxiety tangled in my chest.

Two uniformed officers rushed out.

Their radios crackled, badges glinting under the fluorescent lights. They moved with purpose, scanning the hallway as they approached.

“What are you two doing here?”

Didn’t mess around. One officer’s voice was stern, no-nonsense. The kind that brooked no argument. Marissa’s face paled, but she quickly tried to recover her composure.

Classic move. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, pasted on a smile, and tried to charm her way out of trouble.

“I left my keys inside and called the locksmith to help me open the door.”

She sounded innocent enough, but the officer wasn’t buying it. He raised an eyebrow, arms crossed, waiting for her to trip up.

“Is this your place?”

She never backed down—at least, not at first. Marissa hesitated, just for a split second, before doubling down.

She hesitated, then insisted, “Of course, it’s mine.”

Her voice was a little too bright, a little too eager. I almost felt sorry for her—almost.

“Do you have proof? The owner just called us to report a break-in.”

Finally, she looked rattled. The officer’s words landed like a slap. Marissa’s eyes widened, and the locksmith took a nervous step back.

The locksmith blurted, “Wait, what’s going on? I asked her to confirm—she swore this was her place!”

Smart man. He looked from Marissa to the officers, hands raised in surrender. He wanted no part of whatever mess she’d gotten him into.

The officer sneered. “I’ve seen this trick before. Tell you what—if you can’t prove you live here (ID or a lease), we’ll treat this as attempted burglary.”

His tone was icy, leaving no room for argument. Marissa’s confidence finally cracked. She glanced around, searching for an escape route. Busted.

Marissa Lane finally looked scared. “Oh, I just remembered I have work to do at the office. I’ll go now. No rush to get inside.”

Not so tough now. She tried to laugh it off, but her voice wobbled. She edged toward the elevator, eyes darting to the officers, hoping they’d let her slip away.

“How about you come down to the station instead? If you don’t live here, this is trespassing.”

The officer’s words dripped with sarcasm. He motioned for her to follow, and Marissa had no choice but to comply. For once, she was out of options.

Only after Marissa Lane was taken away did I finally sit down and let out a long breath.

Finally, peace. My knees buckled as the adrenaline wore off. I slumped onto the couch, head in my hands, grateful just to be alive and alone. For the first time in ages, my apartment felt like a sanctuary again.

Crisis averted, for now.

She’d be back. She always was. But I knew better than to get comfortable. Marissa was like a bad penny—she always turned up sooner or later. I’d have to stay one step ahead if I wanted to keep my life my own.

But since she hadn’t actually broken any laws, she’d probably be out soon—and she’d definitely come back.

Time to get serious. The thought made my stomach twist. I knew her well enough to know she’d never let this go. I needed a plan—something that would finally put an end to her games.