Someone was pounding on the door of my rented room at New Dramatists, an organization for playwrights in New York City. My hair a mess, I grabbed my robe and ran to the door. I threw it open to find Peter, the office manager, standing in the doorway. His face was as white as a sheet.
“Kimberly, are you okay?” he asked, visibly shaken.
“Yes, I’m fine! Why?”
“The building was robbed last night. You were the only person in here. Three floors have been ransacked. Most of the bedrooms were broken into. The artwork is gone. Even the typewriters were taken.”
“It’s a good thing my door was locked!” I said.
“All the other doors were locked too,” Peter said. “But that didn’t stop whoever it was that broke in. I’m just glad you’re all right.”
My heart was pounding as Peter left to assess the damage downstairs. I closed the door. Who knows what might’ve happened if the robber had come into my room and found me? I must have already been asleep when the robbery took place. With my light out, there was nothing to tip anyone off that the room was occupied. So how did my room alone get overlooked?
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