Chapter 1
The deadbolt wouldn't turn and that made no sense because I'd locked it myself that morning before I left for the grocery pickup. My hand was on the dark round knob of our white front door, the paint warm from the sun, and the key just spun without catching. Behind me on the covered porch, Mark stood so close I could feel his breath on my shoulder, his dark blue polo already damp at the collar from the heat.
It was the kind of contradiction that stopped my thoughts cold. Our porch camera, that little white dome I'd barely noticed under the ceiling, was blinking red above us at the exact moment Mark stepped forward and slid his arm around my bag like he was trying to hold me steady. He looked calm, too calm, like a man who'd already decided how this would end.
My name is Sarah Collins and that morning I couldn't get into my own house.
It was just past ten, bright daylight cutting soft shadows across the porch boards, green foliage humming with cicadas in the front yard. I jigged the key again, slower this time, watching my own knuckles whiten around the metal. The tumbler clicked but didn't release. I leaned in, nose close to the white paint, and saw a faint fresh scratch around the deadbolt plate that hadn't been there yesterday. Dust had settled in the groove.
Mark didn't move to help. He just watched my hand. The air felt thick, porch ceiling trapping the heat, and the camera lens caught the sun as I shifted. That's when I actually saw it — really saw it — the white security camera mounted low under the porch ceiling, its dark eye fixed straight down at us. Not blinking anymore. Staring.
A cold draft hit my neck despite the heat.
"Why isn't it working?" I said. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted it to, frustrated, thin in the bright air.
Mark's hand tightened on my brown bag handles. He didn't look at the door. He looked up at the camera, then back at me, and his face did something strange — his mouth smiled but his eyes stayed tense.
"Put your confidence, it's completely worked," he said. Quiet, almost rehearsed.
I stared at him. The words didn't match the door that was still locked. They didn't match the way his jaw was clenched or the way he wouldn't reach for his own key. I felt a small, sharp doubt open in my chest, like a draft through a crack.
"You're not even trying your key," I whispered. One quiet call-out.
May you like
He glanced at the camera again. "It's fine, Sarah."
"Please just open it." One plea, my hand still on the knob, knuckles aching, the porch suddenly too bright and too exposed while the lens above us watched and the dining room window beside the door glowed empty and bright, waiting.
