I didn’t open the door right away. Just stood there staring at that TV with the back panel loose and the cash still inside, like it didn’t belong to anyone. My phone buzzed again — landlord: “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
When I opened it, she stepped in without waiting. Showed a badge, but something about it felt off — too new. Her eyes went straight to the TV.
“Where’d you get it?”
“Pawn shop.”
She nodded like she already knew. Walked over, ran her finger along the panel I’d just put back. “You opened it.” Not a question.
I didn’t say anything.
She pulled up a photo. Same TV. Different family. Timestamp from a year ago. “They didn’t find anything either,” she said. “Then they moved out overnight.”
My mouth went dry. “So it’s stolen?”
She looked at me. “No. Worse. It’s how people store money off the books. No banks. No records.”
I glanced at the door. “And you’re here to…?”
“Make sure it doesn’t disappear,” she said. “And that you don’t do anything stupid.”
“What if I already did?”
She paused. “Then you decide who you’d rather explain it to — us, or the people who left it.”
That’s when it clicked. This wasn’t about the TV. It was about the fact someone knew where I lived. And that I’d found it.
I went back, took the panel off again, pulled the cash out, set it on the table. “Take it,” I said. “I don’t want it.”
She watched me for a second, then shook her head. “Doesn’t work like that. Now it’s your problem.”
She left.
I locked the door and just stood there, thinking about one thing — she never asked my name. The landlord already knew it.
