The break-in was absurdly easy. The spare key was exactly where Corabelle had said it would be: stashed under the got beer? doormat. Honestly, I had expected something a little better from a pre-med student. I knocked first. When no one answered, I let myself in. The apartment looked exactly like a place where three twenty-year-old dudes lived together. Old pizza boxes. Recycling bins overflowing with Bud Light cans. A San Diego Chargers jersey thumbtacked to the wall. I skirted an IKEA table with mismatched chairs and tiptoed down the hallway. There were four doors: three bedrooms and a bathroom. I ruled out the first bedroom because of the pink sticker over the doorknob that said, “Property of Meredith” in curlicue handwriting. Poor Meredith’s boyfriend. I poked my head into the second bedroom—hockey sticks leaning against the unmade bed, a giant stuffed panda, an open Playboy magazine—and then into the third.
