My beachfront vacation condo had been vacant all year. Suddenly, the smart meter linked to it sent me a notification to pay the electricity bill. I ordered takeout and asked the delivery guy, Mike, to check on the place for me. Mike recorded a video. He knocked on my condo door, and a woman opened it, her face full of suspicion: “I didn’t order takeout. You’ve got the wrong address.” I knew, for sure, that someone was illegally squatting in my apartment. Christmas was just around the corner, so I decided to take my family there for the holidays. I wanted to see exactly who was living in my home without permission. I’d invested in a retirement-friendly beachfront condo and usually had the property management company handle everything. This year, tourism was down, so I decided not to rent out the condo. My parents had both retired this year, and I wanted them to be able to use it whenever they pleased. But this month’s electricity records showed that the condo was using about 10 kilowatt-hours of electricity every single day. Looking at the records, either the meter was broken, or someone was living in the condo. I was about to call property management, but I dialed and then hung up. What if it was an inside job by the building management? I ordered takeout through an app and asked the delivery guy, Mike, to pretend he was delivering food and record what was happening. Mike knocked for a while, and a middle-aged woman, Brenda, opened the door. “We didn’t order any takeout. You’ve got the wrong address.” Mike feigned ignorance. “No, I’m pretty sure this is it. I’ve delivered here before. Are you the owner?” Brenda snapped impatiently, “Mind your own damn business!” She slammed the door shut. I immediately booked my flight. Someone was squatting in my home, and I was about to find out who.
I took my parents on an early holiday trip, flying straight to the coast. When we reached the condo, I typed in the code, but it didn’t work! The door code had been changed! However, the lock itself was still the original, with no signs of forced entry. That meant whoever was living in my condo must have known my code. My mom went right up and started banging on the door. “Who’s in there?! Open up!” After a clattering noise from inside, a young man, Liam, opened the door. “Who are you looking for? Making all this noise first thing in the morning.” I peeked inside the room, my vision instantly blurring with black spots and my mind going blank with shock. My white sofa was covered in yellow stains, and the walls were scrawled with graffiti. Only a few crystals remained on the chandelier, the lower shelf of the coffee table was broken, and the TV accent wall was cracked. The sheer curtains had been ripped down and lay in a pile in the corner. The entire room looked like it had been ransacked. If we hadn’t been spared from hurricanes this year, I would’ve suspected my condo had been destroyed by one. The man stood blocking the doorway, asking, clearly annoyed, “Who are you people looking for?” I tried to step inside. “This is my home! Who are you? How did you get in here?!” The man grabbed my arm and shoved me into the hallway. “You say it’s your place, and it is? I live here!” He was incredibly strong. My dad happened to be standing right behind me, and my momentum knocked him over with me. I fell on top of him, and he landed hard on the floor. My dad let out a groan and then went completely still. I scrambled over to check on him, terrified. My dad hadn’t been in the best health to begin with. We’d bought this condo so he could come here to relax and recover. And now, on his first visit, before even getting inside, he was injured. It took a while for my dad to recover enough to speak. “I think I twisted my back,” he said. I was torn between worry and anger.
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