Chapter 8
Dave cleared his throat from the porch. He'd stayed outside the threshold like there was a line he didn't want to cross.
"Ma'am, you want me to look at the hardware? We can confirm if it's been rekeyed. Takes two minutes, no damage."
I nodded without looking away from the hallway. "Please."
Mark moved to block Dave's path a little. "It's fine, we know it's new. I installed it."
"I'd still like him to check," I said.
Mark stepped aside.
Dave came in, set his small case on the floor by the white front door, and knelt by the deadbolt on the inside. He didn't touch anything at first, just looked. The plate around the deadbolt was shiny, no scratches. The screws holding it were silver and new, with clean Phillips heads, not the old brass screws we'd had since we bought the place. He ran his thumb near them without touching.
"Yeah," he said. "This is new hardware. Or at least a new cylinder. Screws are new, plate's new. See that?" He pointed at the door frame where the strike plate met the wood. "Fresh wood shavings in there, still light-colored. Somebody chiseled this out recently. Yesterday, maybe day before. Not last week."
I knelt next to him. The wood inside the jamb was pale where it had been cut, not yet darkened with age or dust. A few pale curls had fallen to the floor and nobody had swept them.
"Old key definitely won't work?" I asked.
Dave pulled a small silver key from his pocket - a try-out key, blank. He slid it in and turned. It caught halfway and stopped. He pulled it out, tried turning the thumb-turn on the inside. It turned smoothly, bolt sliding with a soft thunk. Then he closed the door and tried the outside keyhole again with his blank. Same catch.
"No," he said. "Rekeyed for sure. New pins. Your old cuts don't match. Whoever did it had the door open and did a full swap. Did it clean."
He looked up at Mark. "You do this yourself?"
Mark nodded once. "Yesterday afternoon. Hardware store kit."
"Did you keep the old cylinder?" Dave asked.
"In the garage," Mark said.
Dave stood. "I can rekey it back on the spot if you want. Put both your old keys back on same cut. Or new shared cut, whatever you both want. Twenty minutes, you're in."
I stood too. My knees popped. The coffee smell was still there, and the two mugs still steamed. Whoever had been in the back hadn't come out. The hallway held quiet, but it wasn't empty quiet. It was listening quiet.
I looked at the deadbolt, then at my empty bag, then at Mark. "You changed our lock, put in a camera, took my spare, and didn't tell me. Helen saw you yesterday afternoon while I was gone. You said it was a break-in worry. But you didn't tell me after."
Mark's jaw worked. "I wanted it done before we talked. So you'd feel it, the door not working. So you'd see why we needed it."
"Feel it?" I said. The words came out before I could soften them.
Dave picked up his case. "I can step out to the truck, give you folks a minute," he said, quick and polite, American small-town polite that knows when to look away.
"No, stay," I said. I needed a witness who measured screws and wood shavings, not feelings. "I want it rekeyed. New key, two copies, I hold one, he holds one. Not hidden. And I want the camera password."
Mark's face tightened. "Sarah—"
"Is that okay?" Dave asked Mark. Professional voice, neutral.
May you like
Mark looked at the hallway again, that quick cut of his eyes toward the back bedroom, then back to me. He gave a small nod. "Yeah. Rekey it."
Dave set his case down again. As he worked, the deadbolt clicked and turned under his tools, metal on metal. The sound of the door being made mine again, one pin at a time. It didn't fix the coffee mugs or the bag or the dark hallway. But it was a start. The new screws came out, old brass going back in, and the wood shavings stayed on the floor like evidence nobody could vacuum away before I saw it.
