Comfortable? There’s not a single part of me that feels comfortable anymore. But I nod anyway because I need to know. I need to see it for myself.
Mercer keeps a respectful distance as we head upstairs. The second-floor hallway feels colder than usual somehow, despite the air-conditioning humming softly overhead.
My bedroom door stands partially open. I stop walking.
Every instinct in my body suddenly screams at me to turn around.
Mercer notices immediately. “Would you prefer I check first?”
Humiliation burns hot in my chest.
“No,” I say too quickly. “I’m fine.”
I’m obviously not fine. Still, I force myself forward.
The bedroom looks mostly untouched at first glance. Cream-colored bedding neatly arranged. Decorative pillows still in place. Vanity lights glow softly beside the bathroom entrance. It truly looks too normal. That’s what makes my skin crawl. Because someone stood in here. Someone I don’t know.
Mercer moves quietly through the room, scanning windows, locks, entry points with practiced efficiency while I drift toward the walk-in closet.
Both doors stand open. The sight shocks me. Closets are intimate somehow. Personal. More invasive than someone rifling through kitchen cabinets or office drawers.
I step inside slowly. Designer dresses hang in color order along the left wall. Shoes remain lined neatly beneath the shelving system. Jewelry drawer closed.
Then I notice the bureau with two drawers sitting partially open. My pulse immediately starts climbing again. I move closer carefully.
The first drawer contains lingerie and undergarments. Lace. Silk. Private things.
My stomach tightens violently.
The second drawer below it hangs open several inches too. I pull it wider with suddenly unsteady fingers. Inside are old photographs. Not framed publicity shots or magazine covers. Personal ones.
Childhood photos with my parents before the divorce. Culinary school snapshots splattered with sauce and flour. Polaroids from tiny kitchens back when nobody knew my name yet. My grandmother teaching me how to braid bread dough in her small Georgia kitchen. These are all things no stranger should ever touch.
A chill spreads slowly through me.
Mercer notices my expression immediately. “Ms. Stone?”
I stare down at the disturbed stack of photographs. Someone went through these. Not quickly either. Carefully. Like they wanted to know me.
“I don’t think this was random,” I whisper.
The room goes still behind me.
Mercer’s voice lowers slightly. “What makes you say that?”
I look down at the open drawer again. Because nobody breaks into a house to look at family photographs. And suddenly the house doesn’t just feel violated. It feels watched.
“I’m going to recommend a full system review,” he says quietly. “Panel replacement, lock re-coding, additional perimeter coverage, and expanded interior monitoring.”
I fold my arms tightly across my stomach. “How long?”
“For the upgrades?” He exhales lightly. “A few days minimum. Possibly longer depending on how extensive you want the retrofit.”
Retrofit. The word makes my house sound damaged beyond repair. Maybe it is.
Mercer steps back out of the closet, giving me room to breathe again.
“We can also arrange overnight security coverage temporarily.”
