The brass latch on the front door of the Millersburg rental did not click when I closed it, leaving a silent gap of cold autumn air between us and the gravel driveway. I carried our two heavy canvas suitcases into the living room, where the sharp smell of lemon polish did not quite cover the scent of damp oak leaves.
The pristine white crown molding along the high ceiling looked brand new, yet a strange draft seemed to blow from the baseboards. I set the heavy bags down and rubbed my left wrist, feeling the tight pulse under my skin.
Martha set her small leather vanity case on the sofa and looked up at the wall.
“Look at the angle of that cover, Roger, it seems pointed directly at the pillows,” she said.
She pointed to a plastic smoke detector mounted high on the plaster wall instead of the ceiling, tilted slightly downward.
“It is likely just a newer model designed for wall placement,” I said.
She tilted her head to the side, her eyes fixed on the white plastic disc.
“We should get some water,” she said.
We moved into the small kitchen to wash our hands after the long drive. I poured two glasses of tap water from the tall chrome faucet while Martha began opening the overhead cupboards to find where the drinking glasses were kept.
“Roger, come look at the sink window,” she said, her hand stopping on the third cabinet door.
I walked over and placed my palms against the laminate counter. The double-hung wooden window behind the faucet was painted white, but three heavy steel screws had been driven straight through the sash from the outside frame, locking it tight.
“They sealed them,” she said, her voice dropping.
I moved to the side window by the small dining table and pulled on the metal latch, which did not budge. This frame also held three large, unpainted screws driven in from the outer siding, blocking any movement of the panes.
None of the kitchen windows could be opened.
“It must be for insulation during the winter months,” I said, though the afternoon sun was still warm against the glass.
