Chapter 2

After we hung up, I sat on the couch, hugging a cushion to my chest. The afternoon sun slanted in through the windows, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. The apartment we'd lived in for two years suddenly felt unfamiliar.

I picked up my phone again and studied the photo more closely. I zoomed it in, then zoomed in again.

In the corner of the image, near the wardrobe, there was a small, blurry patch of shadow. The light was too dim to make out what it was. It could've been clothes. Or it could've been something else entirely.

My gaze drifted to the wardrobe. It was a white sliding-door closet. Michael and I each used one side. Mine was neat. His was always a mess.

I walked over and slid the door open. The clothes were hanging there, nothing out of place. I pushed the hangers aside and checked the space behind them. Nothing. Then I crouched down and looked at the bottom shelf where we kept the quilts, pulling them out one by one.

At the very bottom, my hand hit something hard.

My heart skipped a beat.

It was a black, square-shaped object, tucked beneath my winter down jacket. I pulled it out. It was an old phone.

It wasn't mine, and it wasn't Michael's.

I pressed the power button on the side. The screen lit up. It had three percent battery left, and it needed a passcode.

The case was a clear, soft shell, with a tiny sticker on the back—a Mickey Mouse. I turned it over. It was an iPhone 8, at least four or five years old.

Who would hide an old phone in my closet?

I stared at it, my thoughts in a complete mess. Could it have been one of Michael's old phones? But he'd upgraded to a 13 last year, and he'd sold all his previous phones to a recycling platform. Besides, he would never use a cartoon sticker like that.

My own old phones were all in a drawer, and none of them looked like this.

So whose was it?

I sat on the floor with my back against the wardrobe, gripping the unfamiliar phone. The screen went dark again. I pressed the button to wake it. The battery icon blinked, warning me to charge it.

It was down to two percent.

I dashed to the living room, dug through a drawer, and found an old charging cable. I plugged it in. The phone showed it was charging.

While I waited for it to power up, I ran through every possible person in my head.

My best friend, Sophia? She'd stayed over for a night last week, sleeping on the couch. But why would she hide an old phone in my closet? And she used Android.

The cleaning lady? We hired a cleaner every two weeks, and she was here last Wednesday. But she only came when we were home, and we usually stayed in the living room watching. We never let her go into the bedroom alone.

Delivery drivers? I never let them inside. They always left things at the door.

Neighbors? Carol Green, who lived across the hall, was a retired teacher. She was kind and warm, always bringing us homemade brownies. The young couple upstairs had just had a baby and were run off their feet. Downstairs lived an elderly man who lived alone and was hard of hearing, someone you had to shout at just to be heard.

So who could have come in? And how did they get inside?

I checked the front door. The lock was intact, with no signs of tampering. I tried opening it from the outside with my key. The bolt turned smoothly, which meant the lock cylinder hadn't been damaged. So how had the person gotten in? Did they have a key?

Michael and I each had one key. There were no spares. Whenever the cleaning lady came, we were always home to let her in. We'd never given her a key. Unless—

I rushed into the bedroom and opened Michael's bedside drawer. Inside were some documents, insurance papers, our marriage certificate, and a small metal box. I opened it. Our spare keys were right there. Both of them.

So did the person pick the lock? Was it some kind of professional job?

I went back to the living room and replayed the video. On the screen, the hand did pull something out before opening the door, but the lighting was too poor to see what it was.

What was worse, this person clearly knew the layout of our home. They never turned on a light, yet moved easily in the dark. They knew exactly where the bedroom was. Where the closet was.

They'd been here before. More than once.