The heavy thud of the front door vibrates through the floorboards. It is midnight. Iris lies rigid in the master bedroom, the blue light of the baby monitor casting a ghostly pallor over the duvet. Downstairs, the deadbolt slides home with a familiar, metallic click. Daniel is back.
She waits for the groan of the third stair, the one he always forgets to avoid. Silence follows instead. It is a thick, unnatural quiet that tastes of cold tea and unwashed bottles. He should be moving toward the kitchen or shedding his coat in the hall. Above her, a single floorboard in Marguerite’s flat creaks, a sharp protest in the ceiling. Iris holds her breath, her ears straining against the static of the monitor. Why is he just standing there?
Weight shifts in the hallway. A sliver of yellow light from the landing is severed as a shadow stretches across the gap at the bottom of the bedroom door. It lingers there, heavy and silent. The presence on the other side of the wood does not breathe, does not knock, and does not speak. The shadow beneath the hallway door stops moving, and the brass doorknob begins to turn.
