Three years earlier, she had given me a spare key.
She had accidentally locked herself outside while taking out the trash. After I helped her climb through a partially opened window, she pressed a key into my hand.
“You’re the most dependable person on this street,” she had insisted. “Keep this in case something happens.”
I had never used it.
Until that afternoon.
Owen’s car was gone when I crossed the yard.
I knocked on Marjorie’s door.
No response.
I knocked again, harder this time.
“Marjorie? It’s Ariel.”
The house remained silent.
“Owen?”
Nothing.
I knew entering without permission could destroy Marjorie’s trust in me. But as I stood there, remembering her pale face and frightened eyes, another thought became stronger.
What if she needed help and I walked away?
I unlocked the door.
The silence inside felt unnatural.
The house was almost painfully clean.
