Chapter 10
chapter
ten
Jules
It's almost dark when I pull under the carport after a staff meeting that should have been an email. I'm already digging for my keys. My porch light has been blinking like a haunted-house strobe for a year, so I usually find the lock by feel.
Except tonight, the porch light is on. Bright and steady. Not flickering at all.
There's a note taped to the fixture, on the back of a feed store receipt this time.
Your porch light was blinking in Morse code. Pretty sure it was saying SOS. Fixed the wiring. Shouldn’t give you any more trouble.
—P
I never told him about the porch light. Not once.
That means he came to my house when I wasn't here, on a Wednesday, and stood on my porch with a screwdriver. That is not how booty calls work. There are rules. I'm fairly certain one of them is no unsupervised home improvement.
Me: Did you break into my porch?
Payton: Porches don't have doors. Can't break into a porch.
Me: That's not the point.
Payton: The point is you can see your keys now.
I stand there under my steady, stupid porch light and fit my key in the lock on the first try.
Inside, I open the junk drawer and drop the note in on top of the taco receipt.