The house was quiet. Still. Too still.
Harper stood in the doorway to the kitchen, tea in hand, staring out the window—but she wasn't watching the street anymore.
She was listening.
To the hush upstairs.
To the muffled clicks of a phone screen behind a closed bedroom door.
To Sofia's silences.
⸻
It had started two days ago.
Little things.
The way Sofia flinched when Harper said Ian's name.
The way she avoided eye contact when Harper mentioned the police report.
The way she seemed… afraid. But not surprised.
And the biggest change of all—Sofia hadn't made a single sarcastic comment about Ian since the café confrontation.
Not one.
That wasn't normal.
⸻
Harper walked upstairs slowly. Sofia's door was half-closed. She could hear movement—quick, sharp. Like someone had shoved something into a drawer.
Harper knocked lightly.
"Hey, sweetheart?"
"Yeah?" Sofia's voice was tight. Too fast.
"Dinner's almost ready."
"Okay. I'll be down in a bit."
Harper lingered in the hallway. Not long. Just long enough to hear the creak of the floorboards as Sofia paced, followed by the soft buzz of her phone vibrating against a surface.
Harper descended the stairs, her expression unreadable.
⸻
At dinner, Harper kept her voice warm. Soft. The way she used to when Sofia first moved in. No accusations. Just presence.
"So, how was school?" she asked gently.
Sofia shrugged. "Fine."
"Naomi's still working on that photography portfolio?"
"Yeah. She's been busy."
Harper nodded, sipping her water. "Did I ever show you that photo I found last week? From that day you painted in the backyard?"
Sofia looked up, startled. "What?"
Harper smiled calmly. "You looked so focused. I thought about printing it out. Framing it."
Sofia's lips pressed into a thin smile. "Cool."
Harper caught it—just a flicker. Guilt. Uncertainty. Maybe even fear.
She didn't push.
She just watched.
⸻
Later that night, Harper sat in her room, staring at her journal but not writing.
She was thinking about the spare key. How it had gone missing for three days, then quietly reappeared in her purse.
She'd told herself she'd misplaced it.
But she didn't lose things like that.
And then there were the earrings. The gray scarf. All little things, all vanished for a time… only to reappear as if nothing had happened.
Sofia had been home during each of those moments.
Sofia had access to her bag. Her laundry.
Sofia had changed, quietly, in the exact weeks Ian's messages became more specific.
More intimate.
Harper leaned back in her chair, dread crawling across her skin.
She didn't know what was wrong yet.
But something was.
And it was starting to live right inside her house.
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