Chapter 3
I set my brown bag down on the porch boards and unzipped it right there under the camera. My hands were shaking just enough that the zipper caught twice. Inside was the usual mess — receipt from the grocery pickup, sunglasses, lip balm, the small leather key pouch I'd carried since we moved into this light-colored house two years ago.
The pouch was open. The spare house key was gone.
I stared at the empty slit where it should have been. I always checked. I was the person who checked the stove twice, who tested the lock before pulling the door. The key hadn't fallen out. Someone had taken it.
Mark watched me from the doorway, his back now to the white door like he was guarding it. The sunlight cut across his dark polo, making the fabric look almost black.
"Where's my spare?" I asked, holding up the empty pouch so the camera, so he, could see it.
He slid his phone back into his pocket. "I moved it. For safekeeping."
"When?"
"Yesterday." He said it quickly, then softer, "After the sheriff's notice about the break-ins over on County Road 9."
I hadn't heard about break-ins. We didn't get sheriff notices on that side of town. But I let that sit for a second and looked past him, through the large multi-pane window into our dining room. From this angle, I could see the far side of the wooden table. Something was off.
Two white mugs on the table. Not one. Two. Still steaming faintly in the sunlight.
We hadn't had coffee in hours. I'd rinsed both mugs before I left.
"Who's inside?" I said.
Mark turned his head just enough to follow my gaze, but he didn't look surprised. His tense concerned expression flattened into something neutral, practiced.
"No one," he said. "I left a mug out this morning."
There were two mugs. I counted again. Two chairs pulled out slightly, as if someone had just stood. The bright interior that had looked so calm and empty from a distance now looked staged, like a room someone had just left when they heard keys at the door.
I stepped closer to the glass, my breath fogging a small circle that vanished instantly in the heat. My gold hoop brushed my jaw. Inside, the dining room was silent, too silent, and the hallway beyond it was dark.
Mark's hand found my elbow, light but firm. "Sarah, don't. Let's go around back. I'll show you the new deadbolt. It's completely worked, I promise. You're just tired from the heat."
I didn't move. The camera above hummed faintly, a low electric buzz I'd never noticed before. I realized I didn't know who had the feed, who could watch me standing locked out of my own house while two mugs cooled on my table.
I looked up at the camera, then at Mark's hand on my arm, then at the white door with its dark knob that wouldn't turn. The house was bright, the porch was bright, everything was supposed to be open and safe. Instead I was outside my own life, asking permission to enter.
May you like
"Whose mug is that?" I asked, nodding at the window. My voice was quiet, but it carried.
He didn't let go. He didn't answer. And for the first time since we bought this house, I wasn't sure if unlocking the door would make me feel safer or less safe.
