I spent the previous week searching for clues in the apartment – where they came in, how they got out and what the hell they did in between.
But there’s not a single trace. Nothing to show that they were actually in the apartment and nothing to indicate what they were looking for.
Towards the end of the week, I began to think it had all been a strange dream, some waking moment where fiction and reality blur into subconscious fact.
But then I found the key. Hanging neatly with my front door set, on the key rack beside my Samuel Heath mirror.
The basement key.
The strange thing is, the grey plastic key tag has the name “Bruce” written on it.