I venture back toward the cramped kitchen, which contains an L-shaped counter and a table for two. The windowed backdoor is flimsy, dead bolt and knob lock engaged. And finally, back to the living room. Nothing here indicates she’s concealing millions in stolen diamonds.
Everything about this place is very…her. Bright, chaotic, painfully open and straightforward.
The large globe bar that stands in the corner of the living room draws my attention. Dark wood, brass fittings…like a piece you’d find in a gentleman’s study. It’s the only item that doesn’t fit the colorful teacher aesthetic, the only object with potential value.
I run a finger along the curved surface of the equator, tracing the seam of the two parts. A hinge on the wooden beam connects to the North Pole. “Interesting piece.”
She lights up as she waltzes back into the living room. “Oh, I love that thing. It’s vintage.” She comes closer, her earlier anxiety dissipated. “I have this whole fantasy of spinning it and just going wherever my finger lands. It’s my little dream catcher.”
Sentimental and a chatterer. Both useful for my purposes.
I spin the globe, searching for the locking mechanism, listening for anything unusual. “Does it open?”
“No. Broken latch.”
And yet she keeps the stupid thing anyway.
I abandon the globe bar and focus on Chloe.
She backs away, retreating to the kitchen with twitching hands.
Nervous.
Smart, just not smart enough to remove the actual predator from her home.
The counter she puts between us serves as a fragile barrier. Every happy, quirky thing in this house—a mug with a cat-related pun, a glitter-covered pen holder—is flimsy. Childish. Shields crafted from construction paper.
“So weird about my tire.” She reaches for the kettle. “I just had them checked when I renewed my registration last month. The guy claimed the tread was still good. What the heck happened?”
Heck? Who the hell says heck? She speaks as if she’s perpetually surrounded by children, censoring herself even in her own private space.
I lean against the doorframe. “Maybe it was a nail.”
“In that case, I’m lucky you spotted it. I might’ve driven off tomorrow morning and gotten stuck somewhere.” She fills the kettle. “That would’ve been a disaster.”
Nothing to do with luck.
I stabbed the tire while walking up her driveway. Not to keep her from leaving, though that could factor in later, but because I knew the act of helping in the aftermath would recast me from lion to lamb in the same way carrying her classroom supplies had.
I engineered both moves so I could infiltrate her spaces without encountering much resistance. Why bother with kicking down doors when invitations are so much more efficient?
Forced entry leaves evidence.
Best to go unnoticed.
The sedan, however, has nothing to do with me. Doesn’t hurt that she seems a little on edge because of it, though.
I follow her into the kitchen, reclining against the opposite counter and crowding her space. I allow the silence to stretch as her discomfort blooms like a bruise.
She fusses with a handful of flowers on a towel on the counter.
“I left these here to dry. The kids will be pressing them into bookmarks later this month.”
She stuffs her frantic, fluttering small talk with trivial content.
Her body reveals the truth her mouth tries to hide. The pulse beating at the base of her throat, the way she won’t meet my eyes for more than a second, the slight tremor in her hands as she arranges dead flowers.
Anxiety and nerves. Desire. Restraint. Fear.
