I Stood At My Own White Front Door While My Husband Pretended It Was Working...

The locksmith said thirty minutes. Mark said we didn't need locksmith.

We both stood on porch anyway, not talking. He leaned against post, arms crossed, polo dark with sweat at collar. I stood by railing, looking at street to avoid looking at camera. Heat pressed down.

Mrs. Delaney from next door came out with trash bin. White hair, capris, had lived on our block since before we bought. She waved.

"You two locked out? Saw truck yesterday, thought you were getting fancy new lock."

My head turned.

Mark pushed off post. "Just upgrade, Helen. Old deadbolt sticking."

Mrs. Delaney wheeled bin to curb, then stepped closer. She squinted at white door. "Nice. Young man did it yesterday afternoon while you were at grocery, hon. I was watering petunias. Said your husband hired him. Drilled for while."

Yesterday afternoon. While I was at grocery. Not morning. Not alert that morning.

I looked at Mark. "You were home yesterday afternoon? You said you were at work until six."

He rubbed back of neck. "I took half day. Came home to meet installer. Didn't think it needed whole story."

Small lie again, easy, practiced. Mrs. Delaney didn't notice. She smiled at me. "He tested it few times. Locked and unlocked. Had that camera box too. White one up there. He wiped it down real good."

Wiped. Word snagged. New camera wiped down.

"Did you see anyone else here?" I asked her.

She thought. "Just installer. And you left around three, came back maybe four? Groceries in bag. Oh, and Mark left again around five, came back later with pizza."

I hadn't left at three yesterday. I'd left at ten for dentist, back by noon. Groceries were Tuesday.

Mark cut in, too quick. "Thanks, Helen. We're good. Locksmith coming."

She nodded, went back to yard. Water hissed from hose.

Silence returned, heavier. I opened phone notes, typed times she said, hands steady. 3pm out, 4pm back, 5pm out. Four sentences that didn't match my memory or his.

"You told her different times than you told me," I said, quiet call-out, one sentence.

"It's Helen. She mixes days," he said.

"She described bag. Brown bag handles. My bag."

He stared at driveway, jaw working. Breath audible. "Sarah, don't make this bigger. I changed lock for us. For safety. You want old key to work, we'll fix today. Together."

"I want truth about yesterday," I said. One short plea.

He didn't answer. Instead he pulled out phone again, tapped app, and this time showed me live porch feed deliberately - me and him, both small figures under roof. As if proving camera worked equaled proving trust. The timestamp said 10:47 AM, today. Bright daylight. No history button visible to me, but I saw gear icon top right. Settings.

"See? Completely worked," he said, repeating line from that morning by door, same flat reassurance.

I nodded, not because I believed, but because I needed him to keep phone unlocked a second longer. I memorized app name on top bar: SafeView. Blue icon. I'd never seen it before. He'd never mentioned installing it.

Locksmith van turned onto street, white with green lettering. Mark waved it down, relief flooding his face. I stayed by window, looking again at two mugs inside. Steam thinner now, but still there. Whoever drank had been here maybe twenty minutes ago. Yesterday's timeline and today's mugs overlapped in my head and did not fit.