Interlude
The Watcher
Lightning flashes across the yard. For a split second, the house glows white. Rain streams from the hood's brim, water dripping steadily onto the soaked ground below.
The truck is still there. It shouldn't be. Thunder rolls overhead. The cameras blink beneath the eaves. A new one near the driveway. Another along the side of the house.
The gift had been there less than twenty-four hours, and he'd already changed everything. The kitchen light still burns. Warm. Bright. Occupied.
A pulse of lightning flashes again. The light disappears. Darkness descends over the house. A few seconds pass. Then movement. Two silhouettes emerge from the kitchen. One taller. One smaller. Moving together through the house.
Not touching. Not entwined. Close. Too close.
The taller shape pauses. The smaller one turns toward him. A moment. Then both disappear down the hallway.
The knot tightens. Rain runs down the side of the face. Cold. Ignored.
The truck remains in the driveway. The cameras continue their steady watch. And inside the house, the lights stay off.