Chapter 3
The afternoon sun shifted past the roofline, casting long, geometric shadows across the green lawn and the beige siding of the house. Martha had finished trimming the entire side hedge, gathering the clippings into a large green yard waste bag, but the physical exertion had done nothing to quiet her nerves. She had spent the last two hours expecting a confrontation, waiting for the heavy tread of Arthur’s boots on the gravel driveway or the sharp buzz of the front doorbell. Instead, the property remained unsettlingly quiet, the only sound being the distant hum of traffic on the county road a half-mile away.
She washed her gardening gloves at the outdoor spigot, letting the cold water run over the thick yellow leather until the dark stains of mud and sap washed away down the drain. As she dried her hands on a rag, a sharp, authoritative knock sounded from the front porch. Martha froze, the rag clutched tightly in her fingers. It wasn't the polite, hesitant rap of a neighbor dropping off mail; it was firm, measured, and deliberate. She took a slow, deep breath, smoothing down her beige t-shirt and walking through the quiet hallway toward the front door.
Opening it, she found Arthur standing on the porch. He was wearing a dark hoodie and wire-rimmed glasses, holding a small cardboard shipping box under one arm. His expression was neutral, the polite customer-service smile he usually wore entirely absent.
"Hi, Martha," Arthur said, his voice quiet and controlled. "Sorry to bother you in the middle of the day. Package for you was left on my landing by mistake. The delivery driver must have transposed the unit numbers again."
Martha looked down at the box. Her name and address were clearly printed on the shipping label in large, bold letters. It was a replacement part for their ancient kitchen faucet, ordered three days ago. There was no mistaking the numbers, and the delivery driver knew the layout by heart. A cold knot formed in her stomach, but she kept her face carefully blank.
"Thank you, Arthur," she said, extending her hands to take the box. "That's careless of them. I'll have to call the depot."
"Happens all the time," Arthur replied, but he didn't step back. Instead, his gaze shifted past her shoulder into the dimly lit front hallway, then back to her eyes. "By the way, I noticed your husband was out trimming the side hedge earlier this week. Or was that you? I saw some movement on my new security feed. Great system, by the way. Covers every square inch of the perimeter. Gives a guy real peace of mind, living out here in the sticks."
May you like
Martha's grip on the cardboard box tightened, the edges digging into her palms. She kept her breathing steady, consciously forcing her shoulders to drop. "It was me. I like doing the yard work myself. David’s hands aren't what they used to be."
"Right," Arthur said, nodding slowly. A faint, knowing smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Must be hard keeping up an old place like this. So much history in these yards. People bury all sorts of things over the years—old pipes, tree stumps, memories they didn't want to haul away." He held her gaze for a beat too long before stepping backward. "Anyway, thanks for your time, Martha. Have a good afternoon."
