Chapter 9
Celia
I spend the evening cleaning house to help clear my head.
I vacuum the living room carpet where we shared wine by candlelight, trying not to think about how the space felt more alive with his presence.
I dust the surfaces that caught flickering shadows while we talked about our families and losses, each motion deliberate but distracted.
I fold the throw blanket we used during the storm, and memories of how Aleks pulled it around both of us when the fire burned low make my chest tighten with something I don’t want to name.
The physical activity should help me process the lingering confusion about his abrupt departure and the strange notebook he left behind. Instead, every task reminds me of his presence in my house, and the way he seemed to belong in spaces that had felt empty for so long.
I save the kitchen for last, loading dishes into the dishwasher while fragments of our conversation replay in my mind.
I remember the way he listened when I talked about Dad, how his attention never faltered or felt performative like so many people’s sympathy.
That makes me think of the grief I glimpsed when he mentioned his brother that spoke of genuine loss rather than casual sadness.
Most troubling of all, I keep thinking about the careful way he answered questions about his work, responses that should have been straightforward but felt rehearsed.
The warm soapy water feels good on my hands as I scrub the wine glasses we used, but I can’t shake the image of those encrypted pages filled with numbers and names in multiple languages. What kind of real businessman keeps records like that?
I’m rinsing the last glass when a soft scraping sound comes from somewhere deeper in the house, like furniture being moved carefully across a floor. I freeze with my hands still in the sink, water dripping from the glass as I strain to identify the source.
The house settles sometimes, especially on cool nights when the wood contracts and expands. This sounds different though. It’s more purposeful. More human.
I turn off the water and listen intently, my heartbeat suddenly loud in my ears.
I hear nothing but the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of wind moving through pine branches outside.
Maybe I imagined it, or maybe it really was just the house adjusting to temperature changes the way old buildings do.
Suddenly, Dad’s warm voice pops up in my head. “Better to feel foolish for being cautious than sorry for ignoring warning signs.”
I dry my hands on the dish towel and move quietly through the living room, checking windows and door locks with the systematic approach he taught me.
I test the front door handle and confirm it’s secured before checking the living room windows are properly latched.
Everything appears exactly as it should be until I reach the back of the house.
The back door stands ajar.
I stop in the hallway, staring at the gap between door and frame that definitely wasn’t there when I started cleaning.
I double-checked it this morning, after my guest’s departure, along with every other entry point because living alone has made me cautious about security.
The memory is clear and specific because I remember thinking about how he’d slipped out through this same door in the predawn darkness.
Someone has been in my house.
I grab my phone from the kitchen counter, thumb hovering over the emergency call button while I try to decide whether this constitutes a real crisis.
There are no signs of forced entry, and nothing is obviously disturbed or stolen from what I can see.
Maybe I didn’t secure the lock as thoroughly as I thought.
Maybe the wind caught it somehow, though that doesn’t explain the scraping sound I heard earlier, or why the door would swing open rather than blow shut.
I move through the house room by room, looking for anything out of place or missing.
The living room appears undisturbed, with the cushions still arranged the way I left them after folding the throw blanket.
The kitchen looks exactly as it did when I finished cleaning, with no drawers pulled open or cabinets searched.
The bathroom remains untouched. The towels are still hung neatly, and medicine cabinet is visually undisturbed.
The guest room appears normal at first glance. The bed sits made with fresh sheets, surfaces dusted clean and ready for the next visitor. The flowers I arranged on the dresser this morning still look fresh and properly positioned, but when I open the bedside table drawer, my heart stops.
The notebook is gone.
The mysterious journal filled with encrypted information and coded names, the evidence that Aleks wasn’t who he claimed to be, has disappeared completely.
In its place sits the original guest notebook I provide for visitors, the one with blank pages and “Welcome to Lake Tahoe” embossed on the cover in gold lettering.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, trying to process what this means.
Someone came into my house specifically to retrieve that notebook, someone who knew exactly where to find it and what they were looking for.
Someone who had access to my house and understood the significance of what appeared to be random financial records.
The most obvious explanation is that Aleks returned for something he’d forgotten, something important enough to risk coming back despite leaving so abruptly this morning.
The notebook clearly belonged to him rather than being left accidentally and retrieving it would explain both the careful entry and the precision of what was taken.
Why not knock on the front door like a normal person?
Why sneak in through the back and leave without saying anything?
Unless he was worried about explaining what those encrypted records actually documented?
Was he worried about questions I might ask after having time to examine the contents more closely?
Or am I just losing my mind?
I close the drawer and stand up, pacing the small room while anxiety builds in my chest. The rational part of my brain insists this is simple. Aleks came back for his property, took only what belonged to him, and left everything else undisturbed. No harm done, so no reason for concern.
The suspicious part of me doesn’t like this one bit. Why would someone need to keep financial records in code? And why does the whole situation feel like I’ve stumbled into something far more complicated than a simple case of mixed-up possessions?
I spend the next hour triple-checking every lock in the house and wondering if it would even matter when someone could toss a brick through one of my many windows instead.
I wish I had a gun. It’s the first time I’ve wanted one as an adult, but I’m familiar with shooting. I went a few times with my dad.
Overall, the house feels different now, less like a refuge and more like a space that’s been compromised by unknown intentions, so a way to defend myself might counter some of that.
Sleep comes fitfully that night, interrupted by every sound the house makes as it settles around me. I wake repeatedly to check the time, listen for unfamiliar noises, and wonder whether I should call the police about what might be nothing more than a former guest retrieving his belongings.
By morning, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m overreacting to a perfectly reasonable situation.
Aleks needed his notebook back, took it quietly to avoid bothering me, and left everything else exactly as he found it.
The fact that his business records were encrypted doesn’t necessarily mean anything sinister, just that he values privacy in professional matters.
I have no glib explanation for why he didn’t just knock and ask for it back, but maybe he didn’t want the hassle of awkward post-one-night-stand interactions?
If so, his actions are cowardly but not necessarily nefarious.
Since I won’t get any answers, I eventually have to let go of it all and move on. I have three bookings coming up and no time to focus on useless mysteries.
The week that follows passes without incident, each day making the break-in seem less significant and more explainable.
I focus on job applications and hosting preparations, trying to get more bookings through the app while maintaining the house for future guests.
My three bookings come and go in a span of three days, and the process is smooth.
The routine of ordinary life gradually erases the anxiety I felt that night, replacing suspicion with the practical concerns of unemployment and mortgage payments.
Mrs. Patterson’s call on Thursday morning provides a welcome distraction from my own problems. She needs someone to watch Sariah while she has a minor outpatient procedure at the hospital on Friday morning.
“Nothing serious,” she assures me over the phone. “Just a follow-up on the hip replacement, but they want to do it under light sedation and I can’t drive afterward. My daughter’s taking me, but she can’t stay long because of work commitments, and Sariah hates to be alone.”
“Of course, I’ll watch Sariah. Should I come over there or bring her to my house?”
“Would you mind staying at my place? She gets anxious in unfamiliar environments, and I’d feel better knowing she’s in her own space with her toys and routine.”
I arrive at Mrs. Patterson’s house Friday morning with a book and enough coffee to last several hours.
Sariah greets me with her usual enthusiasm, tail wagging and entire body wiggling with the joy of unexpected company.
Mrs. Patterson’s daughter, Janine, arrives shortly after to collect her mother, and Mrs. Patterson reminds me of the location of emergency vet information before Janine hustles her out.