The reasonable explanation was obvious.
The bulb had burned out.
That was all.
I was exhausted enough to feel embarrassed that I had even noticed.
Then I opened the front door.
The smell hit first.
Cold pizza, stale wine, and the heavy indoor air of a house that had been closed up all night.
Pizza boxes were scattered across the coffee table.
Plastic cups sat on the floor.
A blanket I didn’t recognize had been left crumpled on the couch.
None of that made sense.
Marcus knew I hated coming home after a night shift to a mess, but I could have forgiven a mess.
People got tired.
Kids had rough evenings.
Plans changed.
Then I saw the shoes beside the front door.
Pink women’s shoes.
Size seven.
My sister Diane wore size seven.
I stopped with my work bag still hanging from my shoulder.
Diane had been in my house plenty of times.
She was my sister.
Her shoes being there should not have meant anything by themselves.
But something about the hour, the dark porch, the cups, the blanket, and the silence made those shoes feel different.
I called Marcus once.
