I saw his car pull up through the front window. He parked crookedly in the driveway, half on the gravel, half on the grass. That alone would have annoyed me on any other day. He hated when I parked too close to the edge, but there he was, tires cutting into the lawn like damage belonged to whoever made it look urgent.
He got out wearing the sweatshirt he had slept in.
The one Tessa’s hair had been on.
He looked up at the house, then down at his phone, then at the door. His face was tight, pale, angry already, but there was fear under it. Not fear for me. Fear of losing control of the version of events.
He tried the keypad.
It rejected him.
He tried again.
Rejected.
Then he used his key.
The new lock held.
He pounded on the door.
“Lena!”
I stood in the living room, far enough back that he could not see me through the glass.
“Lena, open the door!”
I did not.
He called. I let it go to voicemail.
The pounding continued.
“What the hell is this? Open the door!”