I killed the engine and sat still for one beat too long, hands loose on the steering wheel, eyes moving over every detail. There was a ceramic planter by the front steps that did not belong to us. The wreath on the door wasn’t ours either. My wife had always hated wreaths. Said they made houses look like they were trying too hard. The curtains in the front window were closed in a way that made the glass look blind. Then I saw the lock on the front door.
Not my lock.
New brass. Cheap shine. Installed badly.
The mailbox made it worse. Someone had scrawled a name across the front in thick black marker, sloppy and oversized, as if writing it large enough could make it true. Not mine. Not my family’s. Hers, though I didn’t know that yet. The metal underneath still held the engraved plate I had mounted years ago, but the marker tried to bury it, loud and temporary over permanent.
The scream came before I even opened the truck door.
“You can’t be here!”
