As I approached Mr. Thompson’s yard, the old man was already out there, a pair of rusted shears in his gloved hands. When he saw me walking toward him from the opposite direction of my house, wearing the same clothes from Monday, his jaw dropped.
“Evan?” he whispered, glancing back toward my property. “I… I saw you leave ten minutes ago. You walked right past my driveway. You didn’t even say hello.”
I grabbed his arm. My grip was tight enough to make the old Navy vet flinch. “Mr. Thompson, listen to me very carefully. The man you saw leave just now… did he say anything to you?”
“No,” Thompson muttered, his eyes darting frantically between my face and the road. “He just… he nodded. Like he always does. Evan, what the hell is going on? Why are there two of you?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to keep it steady. “But I’m going to find out. Do not come over to the house today. No matter what you hear. Do you understand me?”
He nodded slowly, the color completely draining from his weather-beaten face.
The Silent House
I walked up my driveway. The house looked exactly as it always did. The porch light was off now. Amanda’s beige coat was missing from the front hall—she must have taken it upstairs or put it in the closet.
I unlocked the front door with my key. The lock turned with a familiar, metallic click.
Inside, the smell of vanilla and amber was thick in the air, mixed with the faint, bitter scent of leftover red wine. I walked into the kitchen. Two empty glasses sat in the sink, rinsed out but not washed. On the counter, a small slip of paper caught my eye.
It was a receipt from a local hardware store, dated three days ago. Bought: One heavy-duty deadbolt. One set of wood chisels. One padlock. I didn’t buy those.
