Her stomach tightened. Maybe she hadn’t imagined that thump she’d heard earlier.
Luke noticed her sharp intake of breath. “Everything okay?”
“I . . .” She swallowed. “I’m not sure. I haven’t been inside since I got home—I ran out earlier for . . . well, for a special project I’m working on, and when I got back I jumped right into filming, knowing I didn’t have much time.”
She stepped farther inside and glanced around. A chair at the kitchen table wasn’t quite where she’d left it—perfectly aligned chairs around the table was one of her quirks. And . . . and the pantry door wasn’t fully closed.
Luke’s posture shifted, shoulders tightening. He scanned the room with a subtle sharpness. “Amayah?”
She shook her head and brought herself back to the present. “Sorry, it’s just that . . . something’s not right. Some of my things have been moved since I left.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You think someone has been in your house? I take it you don’t have a roommate?”
“No, no one else wants to live here.” She let out a weak laugh. “And I’m nearly certain I locked the back door when I left. I like to live by faith, but I still like to be smart.”
“Stay here.” Luke stepped in front of her. “I’d like to check out your place—if you’re okay with that. My dad was a cop and, well . . . he’s disappointed I became a reporter instead of following in his footsteps. But there are some things he taught me that I haven’t forgotten.”
Amayah nodded and pulled her arms across her chest, thankful for her cozy, oversized sweater. Somehow, the soft yarn soothed her. “Feel free.”
For a moment, self-consciousness hit. Had she left clothes all over her bedroom? And her makeup on the bathroom counter? Maybe even a towel on the floor?
It wasn’t the kind of impression she generally liked to make.
Luke disappeared, his shoulders seeming to broaden as he walked around her house. It was only one story with three modest bedrooms, an eat-in kitchen, and a living area, so it wouldn’t take long.
He returned a few minutes later and paused in front of her. “I didn’t see anything—or anyone. Do you want me to call the police?”
Relief caused her shoulders to droop. “I don’t want to overreact. Let me look at things first. Now that I know no one is here, the thought of being inside my own place doesn’t freak me out as much.”
She moved cautiously through the living room then the small kitchen.
No shattered glass. No broken lock.
Had she left the door unlocked? It was very unlike her if she did—but not impossible.
Maybe a strong wind had pushed it open. That could also explain the chair and the pantry door, she supposed.
Maybe she was reading too much into this.
“I think everything is fine,” she murmured, rubbing her arms. “Maybe I’m overthinking things. Let me start that hot chocolate, and we can begin your interview. I’m sure you’re on a schedule.”
Before he could respond, she turned to open the pantry.
But again, she stopped in her tracks.
“Something else is wrong?” Luke moved closer.
She scanned her shelves. “Several cans of soup are missing. A loaf of bread. A box of crackers.”
“That’s it?” Disbelief edged Luke’s voice as his gaze landed on several items thieves might have targeted. A mason jar full of coins sat on the countertop in plain sight. Small appliances sat untouched. A set of keys hung on a hook just inside the door. “Just food? Nothing else seems to be missing?”
She frowned. “I don’t think so. I know it sounds strange, but I’m certain someone’s been here.”
“You think someone broke in just to steal groceries?”
Her fingers tightened around the pantry door. “It’s not the first time something’s felt . . . off. But every time it’s been so subtle that I question myself.”
Familiar unease stirred inside her—memories of messages that had grown too personal, a name that lingered in her comments, a presence that felt less like support and more like surveillance.
