Chapter 3 - The Husband I Buried

Now

The police arrived forty minutes later.

Long enough for me to second-guess myself three times, and then swing back to certainty so hard it made my stomach hurt.

In those forty minutes, I’d done what I told Jess I wouldn’t do: I’d paced the house like a sentry. Checked the locks again. Walked the perimeter. Stood at the kitchen window with my phone in my hand, watching the backyard as if the person who’d tried to force their way in might come strolling back to finish the job in broad daylight.

Nothing moved except the curtains.

I tried to busy myself the way I always did when panic crept in. By harnessing my expertise and doing something useful. I took photos of the latch and hinge from different angles, the splintered paint, the gouge in the frame, the dirt smear on the sill. Evidence, not emotion, I told myself, shoving down the fear.

I opened my Notes app and wrote down what time I’d noticed the crack, what time I’d called Jess, what time I’d called the police.

My hands still wouldn’t stop shaking.

When the patrol car finally rolled up, the sound of the tires on the wet street made my throat tighten. Maybe this was my taste of what it felt like to be on the other side of a case, before it arrived in the courtroom.

The waiting was the worst, knowing that whoever had tried to get inside might still be out there, watching.

I shook my hands out. I wouldn’t let them scare me.

Two officers stepped out of the car.

One was young, trying too hard to appear authoritative. Like he’d watched enough cop shows to know only what authority was supposed to look like, without the experience to pull it off. The other was older, mid-forties maybe, with tired eyes and a face that carried the particular kind of cynicism that came from seeing the same horrors paraded in different costumes.

‘Officer Dean Murphy,’ said the older of the two, jutting a thumb towards his colleague. ‘This is Davo.’ He wiped at his stubble, as if clearing away his previous statement. ‘Officer Davidson,’ he corrected. ‘You reported a break-in?’

Break-in. The phrase made it sound clean and straightforward, like someone had stepped through a door and left a footprint. Like whatever they were looking for when they chose to enter my house wasn’t important.

‘That’s right.’ I opened the front door wider, letting them in while keeping my body slightly angled between them and the rest of the house. It was instinctive. An old habit from meeting new clients in my office, from gauging whether someone was volatile before I gave them access to me.

Officer Murphy came inside first, eyes scanning the entryway in a quick sweep that was meant to look casual. His gaze landed on the staircase, the hallway, the living room, and then on me again, as if he was deciding whether I was the kind of woman who was afraid of her own shadow.

‘Nice place you have here,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ I replied automatically.

The younger officer – Davidson – lingered a step behind Murphy, glancing at the framed photo of Luis and me on our wedding day hanging on the wall. He looked from the photo to me and back again, and then asked, ‘Was it just you at home?’

The question was routine. Not malicious. But it still made my throat close, because there were days I could say it cleanly, and days I couldn’t.

‘Yeah. Just me. My husband passed away a few months ago,’ I said, hoping I wouldn’t need to go over the details.

‘Oh,’ Davidson said, sheepish, cheeks flushing. ‘Sorry to hear.’

Murphy’s eyes flicked to Davidson, half in reprimand, half in embarrassment. He kept moving, though, like we hadn’t just stepped on something too tender to talk about.

I led them to the kitchen.

The room was too bright. The morning light came in sharp and clean through the window, hitting the countertop where Luis used to leave crumbs when he made bagels, hitting the coffee machine we purchased together for our anniversary.

Now all I could see was the damage.

Murphy crouched beside the casement window, running a thumb over the splintered paint with a gloved hand like he could read it. He tugged the latch gently, then harder, and watched the way the hinge shifted in its bent joint.

The sound of metal scraping wood made my skin crawl.

‘Were you asleep or awake when you heard the noise?’ he asked, not looking at me. I knew that tone. It wasn’t concern or empathy. It was methodical.

He was anchoring my memory. Establishing a timeline without forcing me to give an exact time. It was a cognitive interviewing technique I used in court to lock down a witness’s whereabouts before their story could drift, or to cross-examine a plaintiff’s claim against a client.

‘I was on the couch. I think I dozed off,’ I said.

‘What time did you notice the window was open?’ Murphy continued, while Davidson looked on.

‘I’m not sure exactly, but I heard a cracking sound, and that might’ve woken me,’ I said, wishing I had something more useful to tell them.

Officer Murphy shifted his weight and made a face that said this is going nowhere.

The younger officer was still standing near the doorway, arms at his sides, eyes flicking around the kitchen like he expected to find a masked intruder hiding behind my fruit bowl.

‘Wait,’ I said, searching for something that didn’t rely on my shaky memory. I needed something concrete. ‘I called my friend, Jessica, when I realized someone had broken in through the window.’

I opened my call history with renewed enthusiasm and held up my phone like it was a signed affidavit. ‘I called Jessica at 7.15 a.m.’

Davidson pulled out a notepad and started writing, which at least made me feel like I wasn’t completely wasting their time. Murphy asked, ‘Did you notice anything missing?’

The way he said it made me regret calling them out here. Like I was scared to be living alone and hadn’t bothered to check the condition of my windows. Like this was a domestic nuisance call, not a safety issue.

‘No,’ I said, folding my arms as I caught the look that passed between them – skeptical. People didn’t force windows open just to give up and leave empty-handed. Unless . . . ‘Maybe they were interrupted,’ I said.

Murphy examined the latch again, then looked up as if he’d already decided. ‘It’s loose,’ he said. ‘Old timber. It’s probably seasonal swelling. Happens.’

‘The frame wasn’t scratched yesterday,’ I said, unwilling to be dismissed that easily.

Murphy’s eyes met mine for the first time, and I saw it. What had initially seemed like hostility was just exhaustion.

‘Hard to say when that occurred,’ he said, polite but still unconvinced. ‘No signs of forced entry inside. No disturbed items.’

He stood and excused himself to look outside, leaving Davo and me in a pocket of awkward silence. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ Davidson offered.

I’m not sure if he thought it would help, or if he was just looking for something to say.

I nodded and smiled. Arguing with him now wasn’t going to help.

I watched through the window as Murphy walked around the side of the house, scanning the ground. The backyard was damp, the grass darkened from last night’s rain. If there had been footprints, maybe the water had filled them. Or maybe I was right and they’d been careful. If someone had worn gloves, maybe there would be no fingerprints.

Moments later, Murphy came back, looking disappointed. ‘No footprints out there,’ he said. ‘Hard to say if anyone entered, but if they did, I would’ve expected to find traces of dirt from outside.’

‘Listen,’ I said, forcing my voice into the same calm tone I used with an unconvinced jury. ‘Someone was trying to break into my house.’ I looked from Murphy to Davidson, who shifted his weight and averted his eyes.

Murphy shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Morgan. I didn’t see signs outside that anyone broke in, and nothing looks out of place in here, except for an old hinge that came undone.’

‘It’s Ms. Morgan,’ I corrected, expecting him to roll his eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time. But it had always been Ms. Morgan. Even when Luis was alive.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Ms. Morgan. I’m sure whoever it was changed their mind. There’s nothing to suggest they came inside.’

I sighed, frustrated they weren’t taking this more seriously. ‘It seems like a lot of trouble to go to, breaking the latch if they were just going to stand out there.’

Murphy shook his head, like he had no other explanation.

Maybe if they had sent a female officer, I’d have had more luck.

‘You might have scared them off,’ said Murphy.

The nerve.

‘Whoever it was, they wore the same overpriced, imported cologne as my husband,’ I blurted, because if I didn’t say it now, I’d wonder if later if I should have.

Murphy’s face softened, but not in the way I wanted. It was the same response I’d gotten from everyone just after Luis died. Pity.

‘Smells can linger,’ he said softly. ‘Or travel from outside. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve craved a steak after the neighbors have been grilling in their backyard.’ His joke fell flat, but he carried on. ‘Did you keep anything of your husband’s around the house?’

That’s what he was going to put this down to. Some old clothing I couldn’t part with. Grief talking again.

My lack of an answer seemed to confirm his suspicions.

‘We’ll log this as a concern call,’ he said. ‘If they come back, or you notice anything else, call us immediately.’

He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to me, noticing the way I was looking at him. ‘Everything’s digital, but not always reliable. A card won’t reboot on you just when you need it.’

He had a point. I thanked him and took the card. I’d probably add the number to my phone contacts and throw it away anyway.

I saw them out and watched their car roll away, then I messaged work to say I’d be in a little late, that there had been an ‘incident’. I called it a break-in.

That’s when I noticed him.

A tall, wiry man standing near the edge of my driveway like he’d materialized out of the morning mist. Salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, jaw set in a way that made him look like a Steven Seagal fan who thought posture was a personality trait.

I startled hard enough that my heart misfired.

He’d been waiting, I realized, for me to finish typing so he could speak.

We’d been neighbors for almost a year, and yet his voice was unfamiliar to me. We’d only talked a handful of times, mostly exchanging polite hellos from afar until now, but something had caught his attention and he looked ready to spend his morning exploring it.

I struggled to remember his name as he walked over to me.

‘Everything all right?’ he asked, peering over my shoulder, trying to get a look inside.

‘Fine,’ I said with a tight-lipped smile, ready to excuse myself.

Greg.

‘I noticed the police car parked outside,’ he said.

Of course he had.

‘It’s nothing,’ I said. ‘The latch in my kitchen was broken, and I was worried someone might’ve broken in.’ I tucked my hair behind my ear, hoping Greg would let it go. ‘Silly, really.’ Perhaps that would be enough to satisfy him.

No such luck.

Greg moved closer and looked around, lowering his voice conspiratorially, as if the street itself might be listening. ‘Don’t be so sure it wasn’t a break-in,’ he said. ‘It must be scary, in this big house on your own.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s OK,’ I said, not wanting to get into it with the slightly creepy neighbor.

To my relief, my phone pinged.

Work. More specifically, my assistant, Carl, who was already no doubt in the office and fielding calls.

I have a new client for you. Interesting case. Do you think you’ll be able to take a look this morning? She seemed distressed.

It was the perfect opportunity to excuse myself and leave, but Greg’s words had unsettled me.

Sure. On my way.

‘Why do you say it might’ve been a break-in?’ I asked Greg. He’d lived here a while. I think he said fourteen years. He probably knew the neighbors better than I did. Maybe he’d talked to someone, or seen something. ‘Did you notice anyone near my house last night?’

He didn’t say anything for the longest moment. And then, quietly enough for me to doubt if I’d heard correctly, he said, ‘This street . . . it has a way of testing newcomers.’

I tilted my head. Testing them? The words stuck, echoing oddly. ‘Testing them?’

‘Don’t mind me,’ he said quickly, waving a hand. ‘It’s just talk. Every street has its price. Stick around long enough and you’re bound to notice people come and go.’

Before I could ask more, Greg tipped his head, smiled faintly, and disappeared back into his house. The door snapped shut behind him.

Every street has its price. The words clung like smoke from a fire. What did he mean by ‘a price’?

That was why I liked law – I brought logic to chaos. I didn’t deal in mystical abstractions.

Was Greg’s comment as innocuous as he tried to pretend, or was there something more behind it? His words were vague and creepy, sounding almost like a threat.

A flicker in the living room window next door caught my attention. Shadows shifted behind the sheer curtains.

I tried to ignore the shiver that ran down my spine.

Greg was watching from his window.