Chapter 10 - The Sunday Return
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The two-hour drive south along US-131 was conducted in absolute, suffocating silence.
Evelyn drove with aggressive precision, her jaw clenched tight, her eyes locked onto the asphalt ahead.
She did not play music.
She did not offer Nathan a single sip from her water bottle.
Every time Nathan tried to clear his throat or offer an explanation, she tapped her brake pedal sharply in irritated disgust.
By the time the black SUV exited onto Michigan Street in Grand Rapids, the afternoon sky had turned a gloomy, overcast slate gray.
A light drizzle had begun to fall, coating the windshield in a greasy sheen of road grime.
Evelyn pulled the SUV up to the curb in front of my red-brick duplex and slammed the transmission into park.
She did not turn off the engine.
She did not look at him.
“Get out,” she said flatly.
Nathan picked up his duffel bag from the floorboard, clutching it against his chest like a shield.
“Are you coming to work tomorrow?” he asked, his voice pathetic and small.
“I am the office manager, Nathan,” she said with icy disdain.
“I will be there to do my job.”
“Whether you are there or not is entirely your problem.”
“Now get out of my vehicle before your cheap cologne ruins my leather seats.”
Nathan opened the door, stepped out onto the damp concrete sidewalk, and shut the door behind him.
Evelyn did not wait for him to clear the vehicle; she hit the accelerator immediately, spraying a fine mist of street water across his jeans as she sped away.
Nathan stood on the curb for a moment, adjusting his duffel bag on his shoulder.
He looked up at the red-brick duplex.
Warm yellow light glowed from the living room windows on the first floor.
The porch was spotless.
The heavy front door was painted a glossy, welcoming navy blue.
Nathan took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and walked up the front steps.
He had spent the last two hours rehearsing his defensive strategy.
He would walk in, act deeply offended that she had embarrassed him by canceling the card, and accuse her of being vindictive and petty.
He would turn the narrative around, make her apologize for touching their shared funds, and retreat to the bedroom for a nap.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his brass key, and slid it into the keyhole of the front door deadbolt.
The key slid in smoothly, but it would not turn.
He wiggled the key.
He pushed it forward.
He pulled it back a fraction of a millimeter.
The cylinder remained completely immobile.
Nathan’s brow furrowed in confusion.
He looked closer at the hardware.
The old tarnished lock had been completely replaced with a commercial-grade satin nickel deadbolt.
Directly above the handle, a sleek, touchscreen digital keypad glowed with soft blue numbers against the dark wood.
He pressed the palm of his hand against the keypad, entering his birthday into the illuminated numbers.
A sharp, double beep echoed across the porch, followed by a harsh red flash.
Access denied.
Nathan rattled the heavy brass door handle with both hands.
The door was completely solid, anchored deep into the reinforced frame.
He dropped his duffel bag onto the damp welcome mat and banged his fist against the wood three times.
“Claire!” he yelled, his voice cracking with sudden panic.
“Claire, open the door! It’s me!”
He stepped back, looking up toward the second-floor windows.
“Claire! The lock is broken! Let me in!”
Inside the house, footsteps clicked slowly and deliberately across the hardwood floor.
The deadbolt retracted with a heavy, mechanical thud.
The heavy wooden door swung inward.
I stood in the doorway wearing an oversized ivory wool sweater, dark jeans, and leather boots, holding a thick manila folder in my left hand.
I looked Nathan Doyle up and down with the cool, unimpressed gaze of a customs inspector checking expired paperwork.
May you like
“Hello, Nathan,” I said evenly.
“You’re standing on private property.”
