Michael zipped up his suitcase while humming a tune. I leaned against the bedroom doorframe, watching him with a soft smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes.
“Don’t worry, Claire,” he said as he straightened his collar. “It’s just three days in Denver. I’ll be back before you know it.”
I nodded, but my chest felt tight.
He walked over, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, and added with a half-laugh, “And remember… keep Dad company. He gets anxious when I’m gone. Just humor him, okay?”
“Of course,” I said, my smile frozen in place.
What I didn’t say was that every time Michael left, something about the house shifted. The silence got heavier. The shadows in the corners seemed darker.
And always—always—Mr. Whitaker, my father-in-law, would call me into his study for one of his strange conversations.
At first, it was all quite harmless.
“Claire,” he’d call, his voice faint and formal.
I’d walk into the study and find him sitting in his usual armchair beneath the yellow lamp, the air thick with the smell of old wood and faint traces of tobacco. He’d ask questions about dinner—if I’d remembered to add lemon to the baked trout—or if I had locked the back door.
But lately, his tone had changed.
He no longer asked about dinner.
He asked about leaving the house.
“Claire,” he said one evening, his eyes fixed on mine, “Have you ever thought about moving away? Just… leaving this house behind?”
I blinked. “No, Dad. Michael and I are happy here.”
He nodded slowly, but his eyes lingered on me too long, like he was looking through me.
