Page 73 of Show Me

I stand, careful with my weight so the floor doesn’t creak. One of my socks is missing. Don’t tell me the damn pig took my sock.

Squirt tips his head up. Sure enough, next to his belly is a white work sock.

“Thief.” I bend down and snatch the item out from under him. He squeals in protest, so I pat his side. “Go find another sock.”

The kitchen looks different in the morning. Brighter. Calmer. The reinforced lock catches the light, the screws sitting clean against the frame, the white box still centered on the counter like it’s waiting for someone to decide what to do with it.

I start the coffee without thinking. Water. Grounds. Switch. The routine comes easily, something familiar to hold on to while everything else still feels off.

I don’t look down the hallway. I keep my focus on the counter, on the slow drip of coffee filling the pot, but the memory of last night slips in anyway. Her hand in mine. The pause that lasted too long. The moment neither of us moved. It lands harder than it should.

I exhale and reach for a mug instead. Brookhaven Fair 2008.

What was I thinking? I almost kissed her.

That’s the problem. I wasn’t thinking, at least not with my head. I don’t mess with Ruby. That’s nonnegotiable.

I fill it halfway and set it beside the pot, leaving enough in there to stay warm if she wants it later. Then I check the doors and windows, the hallway light still on and her door still open. The house feels too silent, so I head for the front door.

The receipt is still in my pocket. I pull it out, flatten it against the counter, and turn it over.

Doors are solid. Windows Locked. Lights are working. Call if anything feels off.

X

I read it once, set it beside the mug, and step back, checking the space like I would any finished job. Simple. Enough. I move toward the door, keys already in my hand, and slow when I reach the end of the counter. Then I leave the house.

Don’t stop. Don’t look down the hallway. I don’t.

The cold hits the second I step outside, sharp enough to wake the rest of me up. Frost clings to the edges of the grass, the sky washed pale and empty above the rooftops.

I unlock the truck and reach for my tape measure in the console. It’s not there. It’s always there. I check the door pocket, then the back seat, pushing aside a jacket and a stack of invoices. Still nothing. I stand there, hand braced against the open door. I always know where my tools are.

After circling around the bed, I flip open the toolbox, moving things aside: levels, chalk line, spare bits, slower this time, more deliberate. Nothing. I shut the lid, harder than I mean to. “Hell.”

I run through my stops. Maple Street. Dad’s truck. Hart’s Hardware. Ruby’s. I used the one I’d left at her place to install the new hardware. I don’t remember getting it out anywhere, so it should be right here, on the console, unless I left it at the shop.

I frown as I climb in, start the engine, and back out before I can stand there any longer trying to place it. The office is next.

Dad is already at his desk when I walk into the office, glasses low on his nose, ledger open like he’s been there for hours already.

He looks up once. “You look like you slept in a chair.”

“I did.” Close enough.

That’s enough for him. He nods and goes back to his numbers.

Her sofa wasn’t as comfortable as my bed. Or maybe her bed looked better. Don’t go there. That’s one place you’re never going to end up.

Ruby’s handwriting cuts across the whiteboard, neat, organized, color-coded in a way that makes the whole day look easier than it is. The phones are quiet. The desk is clear. Everything where it should be, for now. I let my eyes linger there before Dad speaks.

Dad follows my line of sight. “She’s good at the job.”

“I told you she would be.”

He grunts. “She listens.”

High praise. I stifle a chuckle as I drop my keys on the counter and glance toward the back door, then the window that faces the lot. Nothing out of place. But something still feels off. Ruby’s break-in keeps sitting in the back of my mind.