But the feeling in my gut doesn’t loosen. It tightens.
Something is wrong.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the deadbolt, unlocking it slowly, carefully, the quiet click sounding far too loud in the stillness. I ease the door open just enough to look outside.
At first, there’s nothing.
The porch is swallowed in shadow, the street beyond empty, the world holding its breath.
Then my gaze drops.
And my stomach turns.
A bouquet lies at the edge of the welcome mat, arranged with careful intention. Black chrysanthemums, their petals darkand velvety against the pale wrapping, tied together with a thin white ribbon that feels almost ceremonial. Funerary.
My breath stutters as I step forward, drawn in despite myself, something cold already pooling in my veins.
It isn’t the flowers that make my pulse spike.
It’s what’s tied to them.
A keyring.
My keyring.
The one that should be in my purse, exactly where I left it.
The metal glints faintly in the low light, unmistakable.
My keys.
A slow, sick realization unfurls in my chest as I reach for them, my fingers unsteady as they brush against the cold metal. They had them. At some point, somehow, they took them. Which means they’ve had access. To me. To this house. To everything.
A folded note is tucked neatly into the ribbon.
I see it before I touch it, and something inside me recoils.
I already know what it’s going to say.
I unfold it anyway.
The handwriting is sharp, deliberate, slanted in a way that feels almost familiar, written in a deep red ink that looks too much like something else.
I will always find you.
The words don’t just sit on the page. They settle into me, sink beneath the surface, wrapping tight around something vital. My vision blurs, the edges of the world narrowing as my pulse races, too fast, too loud.
Someone was here.
Not just watching.
Here.
Close enough to my door to leave this. Close enough to takemy keys, to return them, to remind me that distance is an illusion.
They can come and go whenever they want.
I drop everything.
