Suitcases lay open on the floor, spilling clothes like guts. A pile of glittery dresses—Kristen’s taste was unmistakable—hung from the closet door like she’d been trying on outfits and couldn’t be bothered to put anything away. A handbag sat tossed onto the bed. Makeup tubes, brushes, compacts littered the dresser like debris after a storm.
The room that had felt like a promise of peace now looked colonized.
For a second, the only sound was my own breathing, sharp and fast.
“What is this supposed to mean?” I asked, though the answer was already scalding in my throat.
Kristen appeared in the doorway behind me, leaning on the frame as if we were in some sitcom and this was the moment the audience laughed.
Her smile was small, smug, and then I saw what glinted in her palm.
A duplicate key.
Not just any key—one of the high-security smart keys I’d had specially commissioned when the house was designed. It wasn’t something you could copy at a random kiosk. It required authorization.
Kristen held it up like a trophy.
“Surprised?” she said, savoring it.
My stomach dropped, even though I’d already known. There’s a difference between suspicion and seeing proof in someone’s hand.