Chapter 6
The locksmith, name patch said Dave, didn't touch door at first. He just looked.
"New hardware," he said. "Kwikset SmartKey, just rekeyed. Fresh screws, new plate. See brass shavings in jamb? Done within day or two."
He tried my old key. Didn't turn. Tried his blank. Didn't turn. He knocked, listened. Inside, house silent except for fridge hum through glass.
Mark stood behind us, hands in beige pants pockets. Tense concerned expression back, watching Dave not me.
"Can you open?" I asked Dave.
"Can, but need proof you live here," he said, glance at me, then Mark. "ID with address?"
I had license in brown bag. Mark had his. We both showed. Same address, different last names - I kept mine. Dave nodded, pulled tools.
While he worked, I stepped to large window. Close enough now to see details through glass, not reflection. Wooden table, four chairs with white cushions, two chairs pulled out at angles. Two white mugs, one with lipstick faint on rim - pink shade not mine. I wear no lipstick grocery days. Thin steam still curling. And napkin, folded, with pen resting on it as if someone paused mid-note.
My gold hoop caught sun when I leaned. Breath fogged glass again, cleared.
"Dave, does window lock show someone inside?" I asked.
He glanced up from deadbolt. "Can't tell. But door been opened recently. Look at threshold - fresh scuff, rubber sweep still shedding. Someone came in or out this morning."
Mark said, "We came out this morning together. That's scuff."
Dave shrugged, picked. "Could be."
He turned tool, deadbolt clicked. Loud. White door with dark knob finally gave half inch when he pushed. Cool air slipped out, air-conditioned, smelling of coffee and something sweet, maybe cleaner. Not our usual morning smell. Someone had brewed fresh.
I didn't rush in. I stood at threshold, hand on dark knob that now turned, and looked at dining room properly for first time that day. Not through glass, but from doorway. Bright interior, sunlight across table, two mugs, two chairs, and - at far edge - brown bag not mine, small leather, handles similar to mine but darker, tucked against chair leg.
Mark saw it same time. His body stiffened behind me, small inhale.
"Who's inside?" I said again, same words as before on porch, but now answer waited inside house, not outside.
No one answered. House held silence. Camera above porch buzzed on, and I realized interior might also be watched, or had been, and whoever left leather bag and pink lipstick had not gone far. Hallway beyond dining room was dark, door to back bedroom ajar.
Dave stepped back. "You want me to rekey to old key or new shared?" he asked.
I didn't look at him. I looked at second mug, still warm, and darker bag that wasn't mine, and felt question shift from why door wouldn't open to who had been inside while I stood locked out, watching camera watch me.
Mark's hand hovered near my back, not touching. "Sarah," he said, low. "Let me explain mugs before you go in."
I kept hand on knob. Door half open, threshold line between porch and home bright as border I wasn't sure I wanted to cross without answer.
"Whose bag is that?" I asked, nodding at leather handles inside. Voice carried in quiet house.
May you like
He swallowed, and for first time his practiced neutral cracked. Eyes cut to hallway, then back to me, and he said nothing. Silence stretched, heavy, and from dark hallway came faint sound - floorboard creak.
Someone still inside.
