The detective came back with more questions. This time he asked about finances. About wills. About who lived closest.<\/p>\n
Kara\u2019s voice got oddly bright. \u201cMom and Dad are fine financially,\u201d she said, like she was proud of that. \u201cThey own the house outright.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at her. My skin prickled.<\/p>\n
That night, Miles sat beside me, scrolling through something on his phone. His jaw was tight the way it got when he was trying not to scare me.<\/p>\n
\u201cI pulled the thermostat history,\u201d he said quietly.<\/p>\n
I blinked, slow. \u201cYou can do that?\u201d<\/p>\n
He nodded. \u201cIf it\u2019s a smart system, it logs changes. Temperature shifts. Manual overrides.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd?\u201d My voice came out too loud, desperate.<\/p>\n
He hesitated. \u201cSome of the logs are missing.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMissing,\u201d I echoed.<\/p>\n
\u201cDeleted,\u201d he corrected, and the word made my stomach drop.<\/p>\n
Thermostats don\u2019t delete themselves.<\/p>\n
We drove back to the house again, because apparently my new hobby was walking into my childhood home and feeling my soul shrivel.<\/p>\n
Miles went straight to the utility closet where the furnace lived. The closet smelled like dust and metal, like old pennies. He crouched, inspecting the vent pipe.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s not seated right,\u201d he muttered.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt means exhaust can leak back into the house,\u201d he said. \u201cBut here\u2019s the thing\u2026 this doesn\u2019t look like it slipped. It looks like someone loosened it.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mouth went dry. \u201cSomeone?\u201d<\/p>\n
Miles glanced at me. \u201cJamie, the screws are fresh. See the scratches? Like a screwdriver slipped.\u201d<\/p>\n
I wrapped my arms around myself. My hoodie suddenly felt too thin.<\/p>\n
We checked the garage. The air was colder there, damp with concrete. My dad\u2019s tools hung neatly on the pegboard, labels still visible. He loved order. Seeing it untouched made me angrier somehow.<\/p>\n
Then Miles opened the junk drawer in the kitchen, the one every family has, full of rubber bands and expired coupons and batteries that may or may not be dead.<\/p>\n
There, under a pile of random keys, was the missing hallway detector.<\/p>\n
Just sitting there.<\/p>\n
No batteries.<\/p>\n
I stared at it so hard my eyes burned.<\/p>\n
\u201cI knew it,\u201d Miles said, voice low. \u201cThey removed it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWho is \u2018they\u2019?\u201d I whispered, though I already knew the answer my brain was trying not to say.<\/p>\n
Miles didn\u2019t respond. He didn\u2019t need to.<\/p>\n
Back at the hospital, I went through the bag of my mom\u2019s belongings they\u2019d brought in\u2014her purse, her wallet, her small notebook where she wrote grocery lists in looping cursive. The notebook smelled like her hand lotion, that soft floral scent that always made me think of clean towels.<\/p>\n
A folded sticky note fell out.<\/p>\n
It was ripped in half, like someone had torn it quickly.<\/p>\n
On it, in my mom\u2019s handwriting, were two words:<\/p>\n
Don\u2019t trust\u2014<\/p>\n
That was it.<\/p>\n
My throat closed. My ears rang. Don\u2019t trust who?<\/p>\n
I showed Miles. His face tightened. \u201cDid she write this recently?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I whispered. \u201cBut she wouldn\u2019t write something like that for no reason.\u201d<\/p>\n
We asked the nurse if we could speak to the detective again.<\/p>\n
While we waited, Miles tried something else: he logged into my parents\u2019 doorbell camera account. They\u2019d installed it last year after some packages went missing. My dad liked having \u201cproof,\u201d even if he mostly used it to complain about delivery drivers stepping on his flower bed.<\/p>\n
The app loaded slowly, spinning and spinning like it enjoyed torturing me.<\/p>\n
Most of the footage from the week before was there\u2014nothing dramatic. A mail carrier. A neighbor\u2019s cat. A delivery guy dropping off a box.<\/p>\n
Then\u2026 gaps.<\/p>\n
Long ones.<\/p>\n
\u201cSomeone erased clips,\u201d Miles said, voice flat.<\/p>\n
I swallowed hard. \u201cCan you restore them?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSometimes,\u201d he said. \u201cIf they were deleted recently.\u201d<\/p>\n
He tapped through settings, his fingers quick, steady. Watching him work was the only thing keeping me from floating away.<\/p>\n
Then the screen flashed.<\/p>\n
A restored clip appeared\u2014short, grainy, timestamped two nights before I found my parents.<\/p>\n
The video showed the side of the house near the garage.<\/p>\n
A figure in a hoodie moved through the frame, head down. They paused at the garage keypad. Their hands moved fast, confident.<\/p>\n
The garage door lifted.<\/p>\n
The figure stepped inside.<\/p>\n
And for half a second, as they turned their head, the porch light caught their profile.<\/p>\n
Not enough to see a face clearly.<\/p>\n
But enough to recognize the way they walked\u2014like they were always in a hurry, like the world owed them room.<\/p>\n
My chest went tight, my vision narrowing.<\/p>\n
Because I knew that walk. I\u2019d followed it my whole childhood.<\/p>\n
And the worst part was this: if I was right, then my mom\u2019s note wasn\u2019t paranoia. It was a warning she didn\u2019t have time to finish.<\/p>\n
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