CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Michael Torres told himself, firmly and repeatedly, that there was no reason to be worried.
People overslept.
People missed alarms.
People put their phones on do-not-disturb and forgot they'd done it.
Even Sarah Brennan.
Especially Sarah Brennan, given the way she’d been running herself into the ground for the last three months.
He repeated all this as he eased his second-hand Prius into a permit-only space opposite her Cambridge townhouse, killed the engine, and sat for a moment watching the pale brick facade.
The morning was one of those clean New England affairs that made the world look newly washed — sky an implausible blue, light sharp enough to carve edges into everything.
The maple trees that lined the street were in full early-summer leaf, brightness backlit, the air cool enough that his breath still fanned faintly when he exhaled.
Sarah’s Prius sat obediently in her driveway, silver paint catching the sunlight, windshield beaded with a light film of pollen. The sight of it snagged his stomach, just for a second.
If she was out on a run, she’d have taken the car to the river. If she was at the office, she’d have taken the car downtown. If she’d gone anywhere that counted as being a responsible CEO, not a flake, she’d have taken—
“Stop it,” he muttered, rubbing a thumb over the rough skin at the base of his index finger. “You’re catastrophising and she’s going to make fun of you.”
It had been Sarah’s word originally — catastrophising — introduced with the same breezy authority she brought to pretty much everything. You’re doing that thing again, Torres. Spinning the worst case out of a stubbed toe. Breathe. Look for data, not panic.
Fine. Data.
Data point one: It was 9:06 a.m. They were due to start their strategy session at nine, same as every Thursday.
She’d been the one to insist on it. Founders who don’t set up regular time to think big picture end up chasing their tails, she’d said, waving a forkful of salad like a lecturer brandishing a laser pointer.
Data point two: In four years of working together she had never once been late to that meeting without warning him first.
Data point three: He had three unread texts to her from the last hour — You alive?
I’m outside
If you’ve bailed for coffee I’m drinking your share
— all resolutely, stubbornly grey.
He stared at the blue-painted front door across the street.
“Fine,” he said out loud to nobody. “One more piece of data.”
He got out of the car, locking it with a soft beep that felt unnecessarily cheery, and crossed the street.
The neighborhood smelled of wet earth and coffee. Somewhere, someone was frying bacon; the aroma hung over the block like a promise.
Sarah’s townhouse looked as it always did — narrow and elegant, a small strip of front garden full of deliberate plants that never seemed to overgrow their borders.
The tiny brass plaque by the doorbell caught the light: Brennan.
The same serif font she used on all their investor decks.
Cohesive branding, she’d called it. People should know what they’re dealing with before they step into a room with you.
He pressed the bell.
Inside: a faint ding-dong, muffled by walls, followed by nothing.
He waited.
Fidgeted with the strap of his messenger bag.
Pressed the bell again, a little longer this time.
“Sarah? It’s me.”
His voice sounded too loud on the quiet street, even though he pitched it casually. A cyclist went past, earbuds in, indifferent. A dog walker wrangled two golden retrievers who were more interested in a patch of grass than in the anxious man on the Brennan porch.
He rang a third time.
“Come on, Brennan. Don’t make me leave passive-aggressive Post-its on your door. We’re both better than that.”
Still nothing.
He checked his watch like that would help.
09:09.
He tried her phone again. The call went straight to voicemail; the smooth recorded version of her voice — brisk, amused — piped into his ear. Hey, this is Sarah. If it’s work, email me, it’s faster. If it’s not work, you know what to do.
He hung up before the beep.
The knot that had started in his chest somewhere between Harvard Square and here tightened.
Maybe she was in the shower. Maybe she’d left her phone upstairs. Maybe she’d taken a sleeping pill for the first time in weeks and was finally, finally getting some uninterrupted rest.
He wanted to believe that so badly it almost hurt.
But the longer he stood there with the crisp May sunlight on his shoulders, looking at the unblinking windows, the more another memory rose: the minor electrical fire in her basement, two summers back, when the old wiring had finally given up under the strain of too many monitors and not enough common sense.
She’d been on the West Coast, he’d been in Boston, and the only reason the fire department hadn’t had to break the door in was because Sarah had thought ahead.
Someone I trust should have a key, she’d said, pressing the tiny brass sliver into his palm. For emergencies, Torres. Like making sure my plants don’t die while I’m off charming venture capitalists. Or, you know, actual emergencies.
“This qualifies,” he muttered.
He checked up and down the street once more — a pointless, furtive gesture, as if there were rules against using a spare key in broad daylight — then slid his hand into the small pocket of his bag.
The key was still where he kept it. Warm from his body, edges smooth from years of rubbing against the inner lining. For a strangely vivid second he pictured her handwriting on the masking-tape label she’d stuck to it: MIKEY – DO NOT ABUSE POWER.
He swallowed around an unexpected burn at the back of his throat.
“I’m not abusing it,” he said. “I’m checking on you because you’re a menace to yourself.”
It didn’t make him feel better.
He slid the key into the lock, turned.
The deadbolt clicked back with a soft, well-oiled efficiency.
The door opened about eight inches, catching on the chain.
He stared at it, heartbeat hitching.
Sarah never used the chain, not with him coming over, not in the middle of the day. She'd once called it "security theatre" and demonstrated how easy it was to break with a well-placed kick. The chain hanging there now, latched, felt more ominous than a fully barred door.
“Sarah,” he called, raising his voice. “I’m at your front door with the key. You decent? Because I’m coming in unless you tell me otherwise.”
Silence.
He hesitated only a moment, then slipped the key out, closed the door enough to release the tension on the chain, and fumbled at the catch with his fingertips. It slid back reluctantly, clinking against the jamb.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The smell of the house wrapped around him — citrus from the cleaning products she favored, faint bergamot from whatever diffuser oil she was currently evangelizing about, and under it all the dry, warm scent of old wood and book paper. Familiar. Friendly.
It didn’t match the prickle running along his arms.
“Sarah?” he called again, voice echoing slightly down the narrow hallway. “It’s Torres. You oversleep, genius?”
No answer.
The foyer looked exactly as he expected: neat row of shoes on the mat, coats on hooks, a bicycle helmet hanging from a peg. Her light spring jacket was still there; she hadn’t gone out for coffee. Her running shoes, the ugly fluorescent pair she swore made her faster, lined up beneath them.
He reached for the wall switch out of habit, then realized the house was already lit. The pendant in the hallway glowed softly. The living room lamp beyond that was on too, casting an amber spill across the hardwood.
He frowned.
She was frugal with light — not out of miserliness but out of principle. Why illuminate what you’re not using? She'd scolded him once, sweeping through their co-working space, flicking off lamps like an environmental avenging angel.
Leaving multiple lights on in empty rooms was unlike her.
"Okay, this is weird," he said aloud, because narrating things sometimes made them less terrifying. "I'm going to keep talking, so if you're home, you know it's me and not a burglar who smells like cheap shampoo and panic."
He moved deeper down the hallway, shoes quiet on the floorboards.
The living room opened up on his left, a familiar sofa, bookcases, and a coffee table. A mug sat on the table — dark ring at the bottom, tea leaves dried against the porcelain. Next to it, her laptop lay open, dark screen reflecting a sliver of window.
A sweater was crumpled on the far arm of the couch. A legal pad lay nearby, uncapped pen bleeding a small galaxy of ink into the top sheet.
“Sarah?” he said again, softer now. “Hey. You okay?”
Nothing.
He resisted the urge to cross to the laptop and wake it, to look for clues in open tabs or unsent drafts.
This was still her space, even if she wasn’t in it.
Felt like snooping. Besides, if she was upstairs in the shower and came down to find him rifling through her browser history, she’d roast him for a week.
He moved on, past the living room into the small dining area that opened off the kitchen.
A plate with crumbs sat on the dining table. Half a croissant, abandoned mid-bite, lay next to it. Beside that, her phone charger snaked across the wood, unplugged, the cord dangling uselessly over the edge.
He stopped.
Her phone was not on the table. Not in sight.
He checked his own.
Still no replies.
The tight feeling in his chest edged closer to something like fear.
He stepped into the kitchen.
Lights on.
The sink contained a single glass. The counter was tidy except for a jar of almond butter with the lid left off, spoon abandoned next to it. Toast crusts — the dark overdone bits Sarah always cut off and left, like burnt offerings — sat on a cutting board.
He touched the side of the coffee machine. It was still faintly warm.
So whatever she’d been doing, she’d been doing it recently.
He turned back toward the hall and the stairs.