You've been here three weeks now. Three weeks of learning the rhythm of the place. The creak of the third stair from the top. The way the kitchen's back door sticks if you don't lift the handle. The particular silence that settles over the east wing like a held breath.

Today, something is different. A note, folded crisply, resting on the counter where you usually set your bag.

The clock on the wall reads 7:42. The house is still. Somewhere upstairs, you hear the faint, muffled cry of the baby—brief, then soothed. Then footsteps, slow and deliberate, crossing the floor above you.