Chapter 4: The Locked Kitchen

The keypad on my own front door blinked red when I pushed in the code.

I tried it again. I tried our anniversary. I tried his jersey number.

Red, red, red.

I rang the bell of the house I had lived in for nine years.

Belinda opened the door in socks and a soft gray sweater, a mug of tea in her hand.

"Oh," she said. "Joss. Lars changed the code. He said you'd probably come."

"Let me in."

"I think I'm supposed to say no."

"Belinda."

She looked at me for a moment. Then she stepped back and let me pass.

The hall smelled of the vanilla candle she must have brought. My mother's runner was gone from the floor.

"Where's the rug?" I asked.

"In the garage. Lars said it was too worn."

"It was my mother's."

"I know. I'm sorry." She followed me down the hall, her tea steaming. "I told him you'd want it."

I walked into the kitchen.

My craft room was through the arch. The easel was folded against the wall, and a white crib sat where the drafting table had been.

I stood in the doorway and didn't touch it.

"He bought it Saturday," Belinda said behind me. "Before the dinner."

"Before."

"He wanted it to be ready."

Before the dinner. Before he stood up and told twenty people in a toast.

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