I sat at the large metal table with my sweaty hands folded in my lap. The room was cold and dim, but I felt heat radiating from my face as I sat waiting, my heart and mind racing.

The door opened and a middle aged police officer entered the room. He looked much like my dad, which was a bit comforting.

“I’m Officer Lee, and you’re…” he glanced at the clipboard in his hand, “you’re Regina Williams. Correct?”

“Yes, sir,” I responded, trying to appear as cooperative as possible. “Most people call me Ginny, though.”

“Well , Ginny,” he started in an almost comically thick New York accent, which paired with his thick mustache, made him appear as a stereotype caricature of a police officer. “We have you on some pretty serious charges here, most notably theft.” He lowered himself into the seat in front of me. “I’ve been at this a long time, and my gut says that you didn’t commit these crimes. But the evidence is overwhelmingly against you.” My eyes begin to well with tears. “I need you to tell me why you are not responsible for this. Why we should keep looking.” He grabbed a stick of gum out of his pocket, popped it into his mouth, and began chewing loudly. “Please, Ms. Williams, I want to help you.”

I knew enough from watching TV that this is the point where I should ask for a lawyer. But I also knew that my story wouldn’t change, and I really had nothing to hide.

“Officer, I’m going to tell you exactly what happened. It might seem far fetched and peculiar, but I promise that I’m telling you everything as I remember it. And honestly, I don’t even fully understand what happened.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, I’m the Curator of Impressionist Art at the High Museum in Midtown Atlanta. I was hired into that position about five years ago. It was my dream job, and I still love it.

“My other dream was to own and renovate a historic home in the area. I saved for a while, and two years ago, I was finally able to purchase a fixer-upper. Of course, paying for the renovations and the mortgage proved to be challenging. So, I decided to rent out the spare bedroom to fund the renovations.

“Being a single women, I want to be sure that my tenants were…safe. So, I hired a management company to help find tenants, do background checks, so on.

“This worked great and within a week, the room was rented to man named Thomas James, a journalist for an online publication. He was about my age and a great housemate. Thomas worked from home most of the time. In the evenings, we took turns cooking dinner, eating together, and discussing everything from history to politics to culture. He would even help with my ongoing home renovations on the weekends.” I paused, collecting myself. “Like I said, he was a great housemate.”

Officer Lee studied my face and inquired, “How long did Mr. James live in your home?”

“Six months.”

“Why did he leave?”

“He got a long term assignment at a news publication in Europe.”

“Are you aware of his current whereabouts?”

“I am not.” He made some notes in the notepad he was holding.

Then he asked the question I knew was coming and dreaded. “Were you two romantically involved.”

Hearing it now, nearly two years later, it still stung. “No, we were never romantically involved. Our relationship was purely platonic.”

“Are you sure?” He gestured with his pencil towards me.

“Honestly, I don’t see how this is relevant. I probably developed some feelings for him, but the were not reciprocated. He never said anything to indicate that he thought of me as anything other than a roommate.” At the time, I did suspect that he might have feelings for me as well, but he left. He never contacted me again. And that was that.

“Do you have his current contact information?”

“I have the contact info he used at the time. I assume it’s still accurate. It’s only been about 18 months since he moved to Europe. But I haven’t contacted him since he left.” Again, the reality hurt to say out loud.

“Moving on, did you have other roommates?”

I chuckled. “Oh yes. Several. Unfortunately, none were as pleasant to live with as Thomas James.

“I used the same management company to find Clay Smith, a local college student who was..eccentric, at best. He was some sort of prodigy. He was also young.

“Living with Clay was like living with a child. Food, trash, plates, and cups were left everywhere. He never cleaned. He never did laundry. But he studied and worked on his projects almost all the time. I’m not sure he slept. I’m not even sure what he did, because we rarely talked. But he had seemingly hundreds of notebooks filled with sketches.”

Officer Lee began to writing in his notebook. “What we’re the sketches of?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. I caught a glimpse a few times, and they appeared to be mechanical drawings and plans? But the notebooks were stacked all over his room. I’m note sure how he even slept in there, if he ever even slept.

“I really think suspect he had a mental disorder, maybe bipolar. He seemed to be in a manic state all the time.”

“And, how long did he live with you?”

“About five months. Once his college semester ended, he got an internship and moved away. I really don’t know anything about it. I also don’t have an accurate forwarding address. I know this because I tried to send him a bill for damages done to the room, and it was returned-to-sender.”

“I see…” Office Lee flipped to a new page in his notepad. “And next?”

“Next was Igor Pavlov, a Russian professor. He didn’t speak English very well, and his schedule was erratic. I didn’t even try to keep track of it. I don’t even know what he taught. Maybe something to do with architecture? There were blueprints everywhere all the time. I do think he was interested in my old house. He was always studying the layout, mumbling to himself. He often drew the layout to my home, as a sort of doodle, I guess.”

“Did you find that unusual?”

“I mean, Professor Pavlov was unusual. I didn’t find the drawings that strange. Being in academia myself, I’m used to some quirky behaviors from colleagues. I wasn’t too disturbed, until…” I looked up from the table, directly into the officer’s eyes, so I could see his reaction to this bizarre behavior. “I came home early from work and found him in my room, with the furniture moved about. Mind you, I have a keyed lock on my door. He picked the lock, went in my room, and moved the furniture around.” Officer Lee looked amused, but not as shocked as I had been. I suppose he saw crazier things all the time. “I immediately canceled his lease and asked him to leave. I probably should have called the police.”

Officer Lee sat back in his chair. “You’ve had some back luck with housemates.”

I chuckled, “You haven’t heard about the worst one yet.

“This brings us up to 8 months ago. Julie Ross moved in. Her real, legal name is Julie, but she insisted on being call Juliette, because it sounded more artistic. And Juliette was an artist.

Being a art curator, I thought this would be a match made in heaven, but it was quite the opposite. Our personalities did not work well together. While she was interested in my work and enjoyed discussing it with me, she had no respect for my home. She was always taking up the common area with her art projects. On multiple occasions, she got paint on my newly refurbished hardwood floors. Clay was cemented in my area rug. All of this was highly frustrating, but we were able to work through it. She was gone a lot, at workshops and galleries. She taught art classes at a children’s studio on the weekends. We were rarely home at the same time. And when she damaged things, she paid to have them repaired.

“The problem was when she didn’t think she had damaged things. She started trying to ‘help’ with my renovations by painting murals on my walls. It started out small, and I asked her to please never do it again. Then one day, I came home from a conference, and she had covered every inch of my living room in a mural. And not a good one. She really wasn’t a talented artist. She had skill, but she wasn’t creating anything spectacular or original. I can say this as a professional curator.”

The officer nodded in understanding.

“Not only that. But she painted over the beautiful original wallpaper that I planned on keeping. This wallpaper was 70 years old! How could anyone, especially an artist, desecrate history like that?” I took a deep breath, visibly frustrated.

“That was last month. I haven’t had another housemate since, and I don’t think I want to try again.”

Officer Lee spent a moment writing, then looked up at me. “I see that you’ve had bad luck with renting out your room. But, I’m failing to see how this is relevant to the case at hand.” He set a large envelope on the table and pulled out several photographs of impressionist art. “These are the pieces that we believe you took, Ms. Williams. You are the only one who has access to them. You brought them to your home, did you not? This was against the museum protocol. And they were never returned to the museum, and you never reported them as missing.”

“That is all true,” I said and placed my cuffed hands on the cold metal table. “Much of that I can explain, and some I simply cannot.

“When Juliette defaced my home, I decided to use PTO to spend a week fixing the damage. During that week, a collection of pieces that I’d been working on procuring for over a year arrived at the museum. As I’m sure you’re aware, these are priceless pieces that were on loan for only a few months.

“When my assistant reviewed the pieces, she was concerned that several of them had been damaged. She was panicking. I couldn’t leave, because I had a contractor coming by to give me an estimate on new flooring, but I told her to bring them by on her way home, I would review them, and she could pick them up in the morning. And, yes, it was breaking protocol.

“I studied them that evening and all appeared normal to me. I left them in the guest bedroom while I slept, and when I awoke, they were gone. I did not report it, because I didn’t want my assistant to be blamed. She did as I asked her to do. I’m responsible. But, I promise, I did NOT steal those pieces. I believe they were stolen from me.” I took a deep breath, relieved to have my testimony out in the open.

Office Lee tapped his pencil on the table, thoughtfully. “You do realize that you are responsible for their theft, as you were in illegal possession of them to begin with.”

“Yes,” I sighed. “But please believe that someone, and I believe a former tenant, took those items from my home.”

“Who do you suspect did it?”

“I think it could have been any of them. Not Thomas, but Igor, Juliette, Clay…all had intimate knowledge of my home and deviant behavior. Igor was snooping around. Juliette was an artist and knew what I was working on during that time. She also knew the value of the pieces. Clay knew the layout of my home better that I do. Any of them could have done it.”

“I don’t think you have a strong case, Ms. Williams.”

I sighed. The realization of the weighty evidence against me made me feel worn out and exhausted.

“I guess I need to ask for a lawyer now,” I said.

…

A week later, I was released on bail. I was probably going to prison for a crime I did not commit. The bail was set generously low, as I wasn’t deemed a flight risk. And for this I was thankful.

I called an Uber to pick me up and take me back to my home, which had likely been ransacked in the search for the priceless impressionist art.

My life was over. My career was over. And I would lose my precious home I’d worked so hard to purchase and renovate.

As I was stepping into the car waiting on the curb, I froze in shock. Sitting in the driver seat was Thomas James.

“What are you doing here?” I gasped, both surprised and confused. “Why are you driving an Uber?”

“I’m not your Uber driver. Get in and let’s talk,” he said, patting the passenger side seat.

I did as he said, feeling disassociated from the entire situation. I wasn’t thinking well, and I definitely didn’t know what was going on.

As I sat in the front seat, Thomas started to speed off. He grabbed my phone and tossed it out of the window. “What are you doing?” I screamed. Now I was beginning to be scared.

“Listen. I don’t have much time. I can’t risk anyone tracking or following us.” He kept checking his mirrors and glancing at me. “Before I say anything else, I want you to know that I care about you, and I’m not going to let your life be lost over a crime you didn’t commit.”

“I don’t understand what is happening right now.”

“I know. Listen. I am the one who stole the paintings. Well, not just me. My team.”

“What?” Panic was setting in. How had this happened? How was this real? I needed to find a way out of this car.

“I’m part of a team who targeted you. And I’m desperately sorry. We were hired by the real owner of those paintings. They were stolen from his estate years ago, and he wanted them back. The agency you hired to run your rental was actually us. We strategically put myself, Igor, Clay, and Juliette in your home. We formulated a plan to get you to bring those pieces to the museum and to get them from you. Your assistant, Amy, is also working with us.”

“You set me up? For TWO YEARS?” I gasped at the sheer size of this scheme. “How?”

“We have the pieces. They are with the rightful owner. But I don’t want you to take the fall. Ginny, I love you. I have cared about you for two years now. I understand if you cannot love me back. But please let me help you escape. I have a new identity for you, new papers, a plane ticket. You’ll be gone and safe. And you’ll be the private art curator for our client in Europe.” He stopped the car in front of my home.

“We don’t have much time. Please let me get you out.”

I stared at my hands, my mind racing. There were many reasons to run away. How could this man be trusted now? But, the reality was that my entire life was gone. And he stole it from me. There was no hope for me here. But there was little hope there.

“You can get me out of the country. You can set me up with a new identity and a new job. There is nothing for me here. But I don’t believe I could ever trust you again. I don’t even really know you.” Angry, hot tears filled my eyes, and opened the door to my car. “I’m going to get my things. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

“I’ll wait for you now, and I’ll also wait for you to trust me again,” he said looking desperately sad.

Once inside, I quickly called Officer Lee on my landline. Thomas wouldn’t have known this existed, because I’d only had it installed a few months ago. Within 3 minutes, police were arresting the man I knew as Thomas James. He confessed for all his crimes, while all my charges were dropped. I lost my job at the museum and my career as a curator. In the years since, I found other work I enjoyed. And I never rented out the room in my home again.