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Probably.

I’ve added it to the growing list of things I do now that would've worried me two weeks ago.

Listening to a child breathe. Cut toast into multiple geometric failures. Carry emergency granola bars. Google whether five year olds can experience existential dread.

Apparently, they can.

I move downstairs, every step careful because the house creaks like it’s personally invested in waking her. The living room still carries the strange feeling of a place paused midlife, as though Ben might walk back through the front door at any moment. Ben’s house always felt like that. Like someone stepped out for a minute and might come back through the door with grease on his hands, a stupid grin, and an excuse for why the kitchen smelled like smoke.

The bookshelves are still overstuffed. The walls still hold old nail holes where pictures used to hang. The couch still has a dip on the left side where Ben used to throw himself down when he was done for the day.

There’s a stack of my work notes on the coffee table, a mug of tea gone cold, and Lucy’s abandoned sock tucked between the cushions like a tiny flag of surrender.

I pick up the sock.

Then I put it back down.

No. Tonight I'm not solving every visible problem. Tonight I'm going to sit. I'm going to drink something warm. At this point, staring blankly at a wall for twenty uninterrupted minutes sounds restorative.

I make it as far as the couch before someone knocks on the door.

My entire body locks.

For one stupid second, I think Maggie.

Then my brain catches up.

Maggie wouldn’t knock. Maggie would lose her keys, climb through a window, then act offended when someone screamed.

The knock comes again.

Three firm taps.

I stand, my pulse climbing in a way I resent. The house suddenly feels too dark around the edges, too full of places where a person could stand unseen.

I move toward the door, stopping to grab my phone from the entry table. No messages or missed calls. Nothing from Tom. Nothing from Sophie or Mick. Nothing from the police, because, apparently, that would require the universe to display basic functionality.

Another knock.

“I’m coming,” I whisper harshly, which is ridiculous because the person outside cannot hear me and the sleeping child upstairs absolutely might.

I check the peephole.

Then freeze.

There's a man on the porch.

The first thing my brain registers is size. Broad shoulders. Heavy frame. A bear has come calling it seems.

That's the first thing my brain provides. Not helpful descriptors like approximate age, expression, or whether he’s holding a weapon.

He stands beneath the porch light in a black leather jacket, his broad shoulders filling most of the view, head shaved close, ruggedly handsome face stoic. Tattoos climb above his collar and down the backs of his hands. There’s a scar through one dark eyebrow, pale against his skin. His eyes are dark enough that the peephole doesn’t catch a reflection.

He looks like the kind of man people move away from in parking lots.

He’s also completely still.

I keep the chain on and open the door two inches. “Yes?”