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This is a room I’ve never seen before. Not only is the door always closed, but she keeps it locked as well.

Having a closed door between Emma and me would’ve been great cause for concern when I first arrived. Since my primary directive was to keep her safe, that meant occupying the same space at all hours of the day, even when she needed to use the restroom.

As the trust between us has grown, and she’s gotten more comfortable in my presence, we’ve reached a place where, as long as she takes her phone with her into whichever room she chooses to enter, I can tap into it and listen for any signs of distress. It’s as if she has me on speakerphone.

Emma still harbors some resentment about me listening to her expel waste from her body, but I’ve reminded her enough times that it doesn’t matter to me. I don’t even notice those sounds anymore. I’m listening for anything that sounds like a second person or a sudden change in her breathing or voice.

This is not like when she’s in the restroom. As I listen to her move about the guest room, I hear unfamiliar rustling sounds, her letting out the occasional hushed “fucking hell”, and the scraping of two rough surfaces coming together. She doesn’t appear to be in danger, but the lack of familiarity with these noises and not knowing what’s inside this room worries me to no end.

“Emma, you didn’t give me time to make sure this room was clear before entering. I’d like to make sure it’s safe.” I wiggle the doorknob and find it locked. She locked me out? That directly violates the most important rule we established when I arrived. No locked doors between us. I must be able to reach her at a moment’s notice. “The door is locked,” I point out, a strange feeling overtaking me. It’s rising through my torso and sending prickles along my synthetic skin. “We agreed to keep all doors unlocked. Can you let me in?”

“Sorry,” she shouts back. “I’m really busy right now. I’ll be out in an hour. Don’t worry! No bombers in here with me.”

While I believe the room is free of her attacker, the higher, squeakier tone of voice she’s using doesn’t ease my concerns. I must find a way inside this room so I can confirm she’s perfectly safe.

“Emma, if you don’t unlock the door, I’ll have no other choice but to break down the door through force.”

“Ugh, chill out, Abe,” she groans. “I’m fine. I’m taking some me time. It’s not a big deal.”

“Me time” for Emma has exclusively meant masturbation up until now, which she usually does in the shower. It has never meant locking herself in a room I’ve not been allowed to enter for the span of an hour. Could “me time” have other meanings I’m not aware of? Searching the browser inside my head, I see shopping and spa days as typical uses of the term, but neither can be happening behind this door, especially given how often she shops on her phone between meetings at work and her nightly routine of wearing a gooey cloth on her face with holes for the eyes and mouth.

I rap my knuckles on the door harder this time. “Emma, please let me in.”

She doesn’t respond.

I continue to knock, and she continues to ignore me.

I look to Ziggy for support, but he turns his head away from me to look out the window while his tail swishes against the back of the couch. He doesn’t seem worried. Should I follow his lead?

The same fear as I experienced the night of the attempted kidnapping is expanding inside my processing unit. It’s causing me to doubt the truth in her words. She said no one was in there, but has she checked all possible hiding places? Is there a closet in that room, and did she check it first?

What if there’s someone hiding in there at this very moment, waiting for the right opportunity to leap out and––

“Abe! What the fuck?” Emma shouts as she takes in the splintered remains of what used to be her door.

I kicked it down, and now the carpet is a mess. Ignoring her question, I stomp through the rubble to the small closet on the far wall, and upon whipping open the door, I find it empty.

My chest is heaving. “If you had let me check the room for threats, it would not have come to this.”

“You just obliterated my fucking door.” Her hands are gripping her wide hips as she scowls at me. But what are those smudges on her fingers?

I peek over her shoulder and immediately jerk back in surprise. I spot an array of flat rocks of various sizes and shapes, some of them painted in solid colors, some painted with simple, colorful patterns, and the rest…The rest are a collection of remarkable masterpieces, detailed and rich given their tiny canvases.

“You?” I stammer, my mouth hanging open. “You’re the rock painter?”

She rubs her paint-stained fingers across her forehead, leaving faint streaks. “I know it’s stupid, okay?”

Stupid? That word could not be further from my mind regarding this discovery. I don’t understand why she looks so embarrassed.

“It started out after I was elected mayor. I just started painting areas of the town, landmarks, things like that, and I left them on the doorsteps of my biggest supporters during my campaign. It was my way of saying thank you, but they didn’t know it was me. It became this mystery that spread through the town. For me, it became kind of a joke. Not a mean-spirited one or anything, just keeping it a secret. Everyone wanted a painted rock, and before Grace got here, I had to do all my own nail art, so I got good at painting elaborate scenes within a tiny frame.”

“Why?” It’s the only word I can summon because I’m far too impressed to come up with anything better.

This woman is the embodiment of magnificence. She runs herself ragged to keep the town running as mayor. The free time she barely has goes right to the coven, and up until recently, she was also delivering handmade paintings on local rocks to members of the town simply to provide them a moment of joy, despite earning none of the credit.

“The residents liked it, and I liked doing it. It’s my secret world, you know?” she says with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m a public figure and the daughter of the previous mayor. Everyone assumes they know all there is to know about me. I like having something that’s just mine. Even though they can see my talent, they don’t know I’m the one behind it.” She covers the side of her face with one hand. “Oh god, you think this is lame, don’t you? Is it lame?”

“Lame?” I choke out with a scoff. “No, Emma. This is not lame.”