The neighborhood smelled of wet earth and coffee.Somewhere, someone was frying bacon; the aroma hung over the block like a promise.
Sarah’s townhouse looked as it always did — narrow and elegant, a small strip of front garden full of deliberate plants that never seemed to overgrow their borders.The tiny brass plaque by the doorbell caught the light:Brennan.The same serif font she used on all their investor decks.Cohesive branding, she’d called it.People should know what they’re dealing with before they step into a room with you.
He pressed the bell.
Inside: a faintding-dong, muffled by walls, followed by nothing.
He waited.
Fidgeted with the strap of his messenger bag.
Pressed the bell again, a little longer this time.
“Sarah?It’s me.”
His voice sounded too loud on the quiet street, even though he pitched it casually.A cyclist went past, earbuds in, indifferent.A dog walker wrangled two golden retrievers who were more interested in a patch of grass than in the anxious man on the Brennan porch.
He rang a third time.
“Come on, Brennan.Don’t make me leave passive-aggressive Post-its on your door.We’re both better than that.”
Still nothing.
He checked his watch like that would help.
09:09.
He tried her phone again.The call went straight to voicemail; the smooth recorded version of her voice — brisk, amused — piped into his ear.Hey, this is Sarah.If it’s work, email me, it’s faster.If it’s not work, you know what to do.
He hung up before the beep.
The knot that had started in his chest somewhere between Harvard Square and here tightened.
Maybe she was in the shower.Maybe she’d left her phone upstairs.Maybe she’d taken a sleeping pill for the first time in weeks and was finally, finally getting some uninterrupted rest.
He wanted to believe that so badly it almost hurt.
But the longer he stood there with the crisp May sunlight on his shoulders, looking at the unblinking windows, the more another memory rose: the minor electrical fire in her basement, two summers back, when the old wiring had finally given up under the strain of too many monitors and not enough common sense.She’d been on the West Coast, he’d been in Boston, and the only reason the fire department hadn’t had to break the door in was because Sarah had thought ahead.
Someone I trust should have a key,she’d said, pressing the tiny brass sliver into his palm.For emergencies, Torres.Like making sure my plants don’t die while I’m off charming venture capitalists.Or, you know, actual emergencies.
“This qualifies,” he muttered.
He checked up and down the street once more — a pointless, furtive gesture, as if there were rules against using a spare key in broad daylight — then slid his hand into the small pocket of his bag.
The key was still where he kept it.Warm from his body, edges smooth from years of rubbing against the inner lining.For a strangely vivid second he pictured her handwriting on the masking-tape label she’d stuck to it: MIKEY – DO NOT ABUSE POWER.
He swallowed around an unexpected burn at the back of his throat.
“I’m not abusing it,” he said.“I’m checking on you because you’re a menace to yourself.”
It didn’t make him feel better.
He slid the key into the lock, turned.
The deadbolt clicked back with a soft, well-oiled efficiency.
The door opened about eight inches, catching on the chain.
