“When did you first meet Michelle, Lucy?” I ask. There’s a thinness to my voice.
She hastily consults the calendar beside her. “Okay, okay. Michelle first came in on…on Wednesday afternoon. Yeah. You were still out and…she said she just had to quickly drop something off for you.”
Lucy bolts up, suddenly remembering something. “Wait, I checked with you!” she blurts and leans over to her computer, tapping furiously at the keyboard. “Yes. Here. I checked she was with you. I promise you. See? You sent that email, remember?” She looks up at me, her face a mixture of relief and indignation. “You told me she’d be coming. You said to let her up.”
“I did what?” I say, incredulous.
“Yeah,” she replies, her eyes fluttering quickly across her blue-lit screen. She nods triumphant and turns the screen to face me. “Here. Look. See. You emailed me.”
On the screen is an email. It’s from my email address to reception. It’s an email I did not write. I shiver in my silk slip dress in the air-conditioned lobby and read.
From: Eliot, Mia
Sent: Wednesday, February 10, 2021 1:05 PM
To: “reception” <[email protected]>
Subject: Visitor—Apartment 3108
Hi there,
Just to let you know I’m expecting a visitor to the apartment in the next half hour or so.
Her name is Michelle and she’s my personal assistant so I’d really appreciate you letting her straight up to the apartment. She needs to drop off something important. She has her own key to let herself in. Give her a quick call on the cell number below if there’s a problem as I’m just about to go into a meeting. But she should be with you shortly, she’s on her way over now.
Mia Eliot
A phone number is at the bottom. I look up at Lucy completely horrified. “I didn’t write this.”
Lucy’s features crease in disbelief before she takes in the seriousness of what I’m saying; it’s clear from my tone that I have genuinely never seen this email before.
“But that’s your email address, right?” She points to the screen.
I nod. “Yeah, it is,” I mumble, “but I didn’t write that.” Someone wrote an email from my email address. It was written just after one o’clock on Wednesday. That was the day of the audition where Emily disappeared. I must have been in my audition at that exact time. I left my bag unattended twice that day. Once outside while I fed the meter and once in the waiting room while I auditioned. All my things were there while I was in that casting room, for a full thirty minutes. Anyone could have accessed them.
My hand flies to my mouth. “Oh my God,” I hear myself pant. Someone took my phone and used it during those thirty minutes. I snatch at my clutch bag on the reception counter and desperately try to fumble out the phone. It’s passcode-protected. How could they have worked out my passcode?
Regardless, I check my SENT MESSAGES folder. It’s empty; the whole SENT box has been deleted. God knows how many emails they’ve sent and to who.
They must have worked out my code and they’ve had full access to my emails, my messages, everything since. Then they found my address from my emails, stole my apartment keycard, and came here. And I know for certain they’ve been in my apartment more than once. They took my script, deleted my emails, and left me that note. God knows what else they’ve been doing.
I turn back to Lucy. “How many times has Michelle been here?”
“I’m not sure. I can check in the logbook, we note down all deliveries and visitors.”
“Did she come a lot, Lucy?” I insist.