Under the eaves of the garage, the small black box of our external security camera pointed down at the concrete.
Normally, a tiny green light glowed on the underside of the casing to show it was recording.
The light was dark.
I stood on my toes, reaching up to touch the plastic housing. It was cold and covered in a thin layer of road grit.
The wire that ran from the back of the camera into the siding of the garage was intact. It had not been cut.
I walked back to the kitchen door, the rubber soles of my boots squeaking slightly on the wet concrete path.
I examined the brass lock on the back door. The metal was smooth, without a single scratch or scrape.
Our spare brass key was supposed to be hidden in the heavy terracotta flowerpot beside the porch.
I knelt down and pushed aside the dry soil at the base of the dead geranium.
My fingers hit nothing but cold dirt.
I dug deeper, my nails scraping against the bottom of the pot.
The spare brass key was gone.
I stood up and wiped my dirty fingers on my jeans.
Tessa and I were the only ones who knew the key was there.
Except for Victor, who had helped us move into the Oak Street house three years ago and had suggested the hiding spot himself.
But Victor was the town developer, a man who had looked after Tessa like a daughter while I was away.
I dismissed the thought immediately, feeling a twinge of guilt for even letting it cross my mind.
I walked back inside, took my truck keys from the kitchen counter, and drove toward the hospital.
On the way in, I stopped at the lobby kiosk and bought a cup of weak drip coffee that cost four dollars and fifty cents.
The lobby of Blue Falls Hospital smelled of floor wax and old coffee.
I walked past the reception desk, my clean rubber soles squeaking loudly on the white linoleum corridor.
