The house was quiet again. Just the ticking of the kitchen clock and the low hum of the fridge.

Then -- crying. Upstairs.

Leo.

And soft steps. Not mine.

I stayed still, listening.

Clara was already up there. I could hear her voice, calm and rhythmic, soothing him. Like a damn mother.

I stood, walked toward the hallway, barefoot on hardwood.

Passed the front door.

Paused.

Opened it quickly.

Nobody there.

Just air, and the flowerpot by the railing.

Still.

I shut it and told myself to stop being paranoid.

Victor would be here tonight.

And I had better things to think about.

Evening fell slow and warm. The lights...