After burying my wife, I finally unlocked the barn she had never allowed me to enter. For 37 years, it had been sealed off, a place she insisted held nothing but old tools and useless clutter. I expected dust, silence, and memories long forgotten.

“Yes,” I said. “Home.”

When we pulled into the driveway, Brian looked around and noticed the changes. The new cameras mounted on the barn and the house. The motion sensor lights above the doors. The new locks on every entrance.

“You know, you were serious,” he said.

“I told you I was on your side.”

That night, after Brian went to bed, I walked through the house one more time. I checked every lock, every window, every door. I made sure the cameras were working. I made sure the lights were on.

And then I went to bed.

But I did not sleep.

I just lay there staring at the ceiling, listening for sounds, waiting for something to go wrong.

But nothing happened.

The house was quiet. Peaceful. Safe.

For now.

But I was wrong.

Dennis’s next plan was not aimed at just Brian.

It was aimed at both of us.

I could not sleep that night. Something felt wrong. At two in the morning, I got out of bed and went downstairs.

That was when I smelled the smoke.

A few days had passed since Brian came home from the hospital. He was still recovering, still moving slowly, still in pain.

But he was home.

And I thought we were safe.

I was wrong.