The locksmith’s van looked ordinary enough. White paint, a faded blue logo, a severe dent near the back left tire—the kind of vehicle nobody in Back Bay would notice for more than three seconds. But on my phone screen, transmitted through the hidden camera above my building’s grand entrance, it looked exactly like a loaded gun.
My father, Richard, stepped out first. He was wearing the tailored navy jacket he only ever pulled from the closet when he needed strangers to think he was a man of unshakeable respectability.
My mother, Eleanor, followed closely, a sleek leather folder tucked firmly under her arm like a shield. Then came my younger sister, Chloe, oversized designer sunglasses obscuring half her face, her blonde hair perfectly blown out. She was holding an iced matcha latte she absolutely had not paid for herself. She tipped her head back, evaluating the ornate stone facade of my building as if she were already choosing where to place a velvet sectional in the lobby.
I sat in a sterile hotel room just ten minutes away, fully dressed in black slacks and a crisp blouse, my suitcase wide open on the generic floral bedspread as a prop just in case anyone knocked and asked. Paris did not exist. The flight confirmation I had forwarded to the family group chat last week had been a mock itinerary, scraped from a travel app draft I never actually booked.
My real journey was about to happen in an elevator.
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