“Lucky Me,” They Say
“Emily, just let me explain!” gasped Daniel, breathless at her doorstep.
“What do you want from me? Go sort it out with your boss!”
“You don’t get it. I’m sorry… *You* don’t get it. Please, lock all the doors and call the police. Just trust me!”
Emily stared, bewildered, as Daniel bolted away. What on earth was going on? Since when did an appliance repairman act so strangely?
Then—noise from downstairs. Raised voices, shattering glass, and Daniel’s shout:
“Emily, run!”
She slammed the door. No clue what was happening, but she did exactly as he’d said—threw the deadbolts, twisted the key in the lock, and with shaking hands, dialed 999.
A knock. Emily flinched, clutching her phone to her chest. *Please let this be over.*
“Sweetheart, you in there? We can hear you. Open up nice and easy—we won’t hurt you, promise,” came a slimy voice through the door.
She held her breath. Silence. Then—scraping. Someone was tampering with 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!” Emily blurted, then clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Bad move, love,” the voice sneered. “Lads, let’s go. We’ll be back, yeah?”
Footsteps thudded down the stairs. Fading. Then… nothing. Her ears rang. Emily slid down the wall, phone still gripped tight.
Another knock. A whimper escaped her—until:
“Open up, police!”
—————
At the kitchen table, Emily recounted everything to the officers. The constable scribbled notes while the sergeant—older, clearly in charge—leaned in.
“Who’s this Daniel? How’d you meet?”
“Six months ago, I bought a washing machine. Brand new. Last month, it leaked. The shop sent me to their repair service. Daniel was assigned.”
“You’d never met before?”
“No! First time was when he showed up at my flat.”
“So you let a stranger into your home?”
Emily scoffed. “It was an *official* service call. He had ID, a uniform, tools—everything. Took notes, had me sign paperwork. Why would I suspect him?”
And why would she? Daniel had been prompt, professional. Tall, tidy, in company-branded gear, lugging a hefty toolbox. He’d inspected the machine, jotted things down, even handed her a slip afterward.
“What’s this?” she’d asked.
“My mobile number. In case it acts up again. Official channels take ages—call me direct, I’ll pop round quicker.”
Makes sense, she’d thought. The first repair request *had* taken a week.
But days later, the machine leaked again. Reluctantly, she rang Daniel.
“I’ll check it. No charge,” he’d said.
“I don’t get it—what’s wrong with this thing?”
“Don’t fret. This brand’s dodgy—trust me.”
Afterward, he’d wiped his hands, smiling. “All sorted. Hope you won’t need me again.”
“Hope so too. Thanks!”
And that was that. No flirting, no odd behavior. Until—*again*—the machine flooded. This time, Daniel’s number was disconnected.
Furious, Emily mopped up, then called the service center. The operator was baffled.
“Daniel logged it as fully repaired. You say he came back? There’s no record…”
“He *told* me this model’s faulty! Said calling him direct was faster!”
Something was off. They’d send another technician—*tomorrow*. Daniel was MIA, but “we’ll handle it,” the operator assured. “No complaints about him before.”
Then—the knock. Daniel, pleading: *Lock the door. Call for help.*
—————
“That’s all I know,” Emily muttered.
“Did you chat much during the repairs?” the sergeant asked.
“No. What’s there to say? I just asked if he needed anything.”
“You mentioned his tools?” The constable smirked.
“They don’t carry *towels*, do they?” Emily snapped. “When they unscrew bits, water sprays everywhere—”
The officers exchanged glances. Emily’s stomach dropped.
“What’s going on? Those men threatened to come back! Who *are* they?”
“Still piecing it together,” the sergeant said. “But we suspect Daniel’s linked to a burglary ring. Scouts get jobs like his—case homes, note details. How many live there, routines… A bathroom alone tells loads.” At her confusion, he added, “Toothbrushes, toiletries—revealing.”
Emily went cold. Those men were thieves. The constable handed her a form.
“Sign here, here, and here. We’ll call if we learn more. Stay reachable.”
“Wait—” She grabbed the constable’s wrist, half-hysterical. “You’re *leaving* me? They’ll return! What do I *do*?”
“Stay calm. We’ve got eyes on it,” the sergeant said wearily.
As they left, Emily deadbolted the door. Thank god she’d splurged on a solid lock. Still—every creak had her jumping.
Friends arrived that evening—her mate James and a couple. They played board games, forcing normalcy. When her phone rang—*unknown number*—Emily froze.
“Put it on speaker,” James said.
“Hello? Victoria Ellington?”
“Y-yes?”
“DI Harris. We spoke earlier. Good news—we’ve got your man.”
“What?”
“Daniel. Caught on CCTV. He *was* scouting—marking flats for his crew. Court next. You helped us. If he hadn’t warned you…” A pause. “You’ll need to give a statement. Stay local, keep any texts or calls. Cheers.”
The line went dead. Emily shuddered. Those men *knew* Daniel had tipped her off.
“Bit romantic, in a way,” her friend mused.
Emily disagreed. A charming smile didn’t mean honesty. Sometimes it hid betrayal.
But one question haunted her: If Daniel was only after profit… why *did* he come back to warn her?
