She almost laughs. "Be careful, Cade."
I stand in the hallway with its scuffed tile and humming fluorescents, and what hits me isn't the dead end. Dead ends are data — they tell you someone paid to build a wall, which means there's something worth walling off.
What hits me is that I've been gone almost ninety minutes and the back of my neck won't stop prickling.
The front door of the Foxglove is locked. Deadbolt engaged. Good. My chest loosens half an inch as I turn the key.
The smell hits first — coffee and something baked. Normal. The parlor is empty, the staircase quiet.
Then the kitchen doorway.
Kari stands at the counter with her back to me, wet hair dripping onto a flannel shirt that's too big — mine, I think, before I can stop the thought. Her hands are wrapped around a mug. She's not drinking. She's holding it the way someone holds something solid when the rest of the room has gone liquid.
"Hey." Rougher than I intend.
She turns. The expression on her face is careful. Assembled.
"Someone was in the house."
Everything inside me goes cold and still.
"When."
"While I was in the shower." She sets the mug down. Her fingers are steady but her jaw is tight. "I came downstairs and that chair — " She points to the wooden chair that was near the front window, moved to the center of the kitchen. Turned to face the front door.
Positioned like someone sat in it. Waited. Watched.
"And that." She nods toward the counter.
Heavy stock, cream-colored. Typed. A logo: HALCYON RIDGE DEVELOPMENT.
Dear Ms. Engstrom,
We are writing to extend a final courtesy offer for the property at 412 Sycamore Lane. Our client is prepared to offer $340,000 — a generous valuation given the outstanding permits, deferred maintenance, and recent code concerns.
We understand you've been enjoying the blueberry muffins at Nina's shop most mornings around eight-thirty. We hope you'll consider your future comfort and safety with the same attention you've given to your Thursday afternoon hardware store visits.
This offer will not be extended again.
Prescott & Yates, representing Halcyon Ridge Development
My blood goes volcanic.
They know her schedule. The muffins at Nina's. The hardware store. They've been watching long enough to build a pattern, and they put it in writing because they wanted her to understand exactly how seen she is.
And they waited for me to leave. Less than two hours, and they moved like they had a clock running.
The paper trembles in my hand. Not fear. Rage.
"The front deadbolt was locked when I went upstairs," she says. "Locked when I came down."
Seven entry points. Ground-floor windows that don't latch. The cellar hatch. Her bedroom window over the porch roof.
I move.
Sweep the ground floor — every room, every closet. Check window locks, the cellar hatch, the back porch. Upstairs, room by room. Kari's bedroom window is closed but unlatched. The porch roof below shows a scuff mark in the gutter debris.
It's not nothing.
