The ping of a notification caught my attention—Bruce's iPad lighting up on the coffee table. I glanced over, frowning because he normally took his gadgets with him.

I grabbed it and decided to check if it was anything important from work.

On the notifications bar, I saw "Crestwood Apartments" and something about a "hot water shutdown for necessary repairs." It was an email addressed directly to his full name.

I blinked.

We'd bought our colonial two-story over ten years ago. Why would Bruce get emails from an apartment complex?

My finger trembled as I clicked and opened the email fully.

"Dear Bruce,

Please be advised that hot water will be unavailable from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. this Tuesday due to necessary maintenance. We apologize for any inconvenience.

Sincerely,

Crestwood Management."

I immediately reached for my phone to call my husband. But the den always had terrible reception. I paced around, holding my phone up until I caught a single bar of service.

"Hey," Bruce answered on the fifth ring, his voice crackling through static.

"Bruce, I just saw an email on your iPad from some place called Crestwood Apartments," I said, speaking fast before the call could drop. "About hot water repairs. It has your full name on it."

"Must be a mistake," he replied. "Wrong email."

"But it has your full—" The call got cut. I stared at my phone screen in frustration.

I tried calling again, moving around the entire house for better reception, but for some reason, Bruce didn't answer again. After about 15 minutes of trying, I plopped down on the couch.

It could be a mistake, right? People get wrongly added to email lists all the time. But why his full name? Not just a generic "resident" or even a wrong name that sort of looked like his?

I grabbed the iPad again and checked his inbox for any other messages from Crestwood. Nothing.

But Bruce deleted emails as soon as he read them—always had, neat freak that he was. Just like me.

The knot in my stomach tightened. I typed "Crestwood Apartments" into the search bar on the Chrome app.

It was 20 minutes away.

I hit send on a quick email to their contact address, explaining there must be some mistake. However, an auto-reply came instantly:

"Thank you for your interest in Crestwood Apartments. Our office will be closed until after the Easter holidays. Current rates range from $950 for a studio to $1,450 for a two-bedroom. No units available at this time."

That wasn't helpful. The previous message must have been programmed days earlier.

I stood and tried to focus on cleaning the rest of my house, but my mind kept circling back to that email. After an hour of pretending to dust while actually staring at walls, I grabbed my car keys. I had to know.

The apartment complex wasn't fancy—just six three-story buildings arranged around a central courtyard with patchy grass and a sad-looking playground. I parked and sat in my car, suddenly aware I had no idea what to do next.

Knock on doors asking for Bruce? That sounded stupid, so I called Lexi, my best friend.

"I think Bruce has a secret apartment," I blurted when she answered.

"Whoa, back up," Lexi said. "What happened?"

I explained everything—the email, the call, the auto-reply, and my growing panic.

Lexi didn't hesitate. "I'll be there in 15 minutes. Meanwhile, call their maintenance number. Say you're delivering an expensive package for Bruce. They'll tell you which apartment."

"That's... actually brilliant," I said.

"I know," she replied. "I watch too many spy movies."

I found the maintenance number online and called, biting my nails while the dial tone rang.

"Crestwood maintenance," a gruff voice answered.

"Hi," I said, pitching my voice higher than normal. "I have a delivery for Bruce? It's expensive and needs a signature. The address is missing the apartment number and building, I believe."

"Bruce who?" the man asked slowly.

I said his last name.

"Hmm." Papers shuffled. "I don't think we have a Bruce here."

My heart soared. Maybe it was a mistake after all.

"Wait a minute," he said. "He might be the man who visits the lady in Apartment 2B. I think I heard her calling him Bruce when I fixed her pipes two weeks ago."

"Which building?"

"Building C, but maybe that's not it."

"I'll check myself," I said quickly. "Thank you."

I hung up and waited. Minutes later, I saw Lexi pull up behind my car. Her face was serious as she slid into my passenger seat.

"I got an apartment number," I told her. "2B at Building C. The man wasn't too sure."

"If he's hiding something, maybe he used another name," Lexi said, pursing her lips. "Let's just go."

"Okay," I said, clicking my seat belt off.

We walked to building C, found the intercom, and Lexi pressed the button for apartment 2B.

"Who is it?" a woman's voice crackled through the speaker. She didn't sound like a young woman.