Chapter 4
The camera kept humming.
I heard it now I knew to listen. Low buzz under porch ceiling, white plastic warm from sun. Mark's hand still rested on my elbow. Light grip, meant to guide. I shrugged it off. Not hard. Just enough to make him let go.
"Show me," I said.
He blinked. "Show you what?"
"The camera feed. If it's completely worked, you can show me on your phone."
He didn't reach for his phone right away. He looked at door, then window, then at me. Small pause before speaking that felt longer than it was. Breath held, jaw tight.
"I haven't set up sharing yet," he said. "Installer just finished yesterday. I was going to add you tonight."
Yesterday. He'd said yesterday about mug, about deadbolt. Yesterday kept coming up.
I set my brown bag on porch boards. Canvas thud. Gold hoop swung when I leaned down to unzip. I dug for keys out of habit, though I knew they'd not turn. Deadbolt new, screws bright, plate not yet dusted. My hand found phone instead.
I opened our shared photos. Last porch photo from May showed old brass lock, chipped paint. I held it up next to current white door. Different hardware.
"You changed hardware without telling me," I said.
Mark exhaled through nose. "County sheriff put out alert. Three break-ins on County Road 9. I wanted us covered before weekend."
"We talk before we change locks on our house. That's our rule."
He finally pulled out his phone. Black case, cracked corner I'd told him to replace. He tapped, swiped, then angled screen toward me but not close enough to read. I saw grid: front porch, side yard, dining room. Live. Timestamped. My face, small box in corner, staring up from below.
"You have interior camera too?" I asked.
"Just porch. That dining view is reflection. It's porch angle catching window."
It wasn't. Image showed table from above, mugs clearly inside. I stepped closer to see better. He locked phone.
"Battery low," he said. One lie, short, flat.
"Let me hold it," I said.
He hesitated, thumb over power button. Another micro-pause. "Passcode? It's work stuff on there."
"We share passcodes. Since we moved in."
He said nothing. Quiet stretched. Cicadas loud in green foliage beyond porch. My cream sweater stuck to back in heat. I realized I stood locked outside while he held only key - digital and physical.
"Mark, give me phone," I said, voice quiet. One plea, not begging.
He shook head once. "Not like this. You're worked up from heat. Let's go inside back way and I'll add you to app. Together."
He turned toward side steps, expecting me to follow. I didn't. I looked up at white camera again, red light steady, watching. My throat dry. I understood imbalance now - he could watch me try door, watch me fail, rewind it later. I couldn't see who watched with him, or who'd been inside drinking from second mug.
"I want access now," I said. "Or I call locksmith myself."
His shoulders rose, then dropped. He didn't hand phone over. He said, "Don't do that. Please."
May you like
Two sentences. One evasion, one deflection. I stood on porch boards, brown bag at feet, white door closed in front, camera overhead, and felt house tilt from home to something else. Property I couldn't enter, system I couldn't see.
I picked up bag. Zipper caught. I yanked. "Then we call him together. Right now."
