He reaches the living room, moving toward the front door. At the threshold, he pauses.
"Lock the deadbolt. And the chain." He doesn't turn around. "And doublecheck your back locks. The side gate doesn't catch. Anyone could walk into your backyard."
Cold slices through me.How does he know that?
Before I can demand an answer, he's through the door, pulling it shut behind him with a soft click that sounds louder than it should.
I'm across the room in three steps, hands fumbling with the deadbolt, then the chain. The metal slides home with a satisfying thunk.
Through the narrow window beside the door. His back retreating toward a black SUV parked across the street. He doesn't look back.
The house settles into silence around me.
I won.
Then why does it feel like losing?
I check every lock in the house.
At the front door, the deadbolt and chain are both engaged. I check the back door, the deadbolt and wooden security bar Sal installed last year in place. The sliding glass door to the patio as the metal rod in the track, safety latch engaged.
The windows take longer.
Living room, kitchen, dining room. I move through the downstairs like I'm securing a crime scene, testing each latch twice, three times, until my fingers ache from pressing against cold metal.
The side gate.
I flip on the back porch light and peer through the kitchen window. The wooden gate sits at the end of the fence line, barely visible in the dark. I've meant to fix that latch for months. Kept forgetting.
Has he been watching me?
I climb the stairs slowly, each step groaning in the familiar pattern. Third step groans. Seventh step squeaks. Halfway up, I pull out my phone and arm the interior sensors, setting the app to alert me if anyone moves downstairs.
Chesca's door is cracked open, the way she likes it. Nightlight casting purple butterflies across her ceiling. I push inside and stand over her bed. Her chest rises. Falls.
Uno. Due. Tre.
The ritual I started when she was a newborn, when I was alone in that apartment and her father was god-knows-where. When I would wake at 3 AM convinced something was wrong and stand over her crib counting breaths until my heart stopped racing.
Quattro. Cinque. Sei.
She's fine. She's safe. She's sleeping with Aaron Bear tucked under one arm, dark hair splayed across her pillow, face slack and peaceful in a way she never manages when awake.
I check her windows. Both locked. Both secure.
I back out of Chesca's room slowly, pulling the door to the angle she prefers, cracked exactly three inches, enough to let light in but not enough to feel exposed.
My own room feels wrong. Too quiet. Too empty.
I check those windows too. Both locked. The one facing the street gives me a view of him leaning against his motorcycle, parked across the street, dark and silent.
Watching.
I yank the curtains closed.
Sleep isn't coming. I know it before I even try. But I go through the motions anyway—washing my face, brushing my teeth, changing from the sleep shorts into actual pajamas because somehow that feels less vulnerable.
The bed is cold when I slide between the sheets.