The doorbell's shrill ring drags me from sleep like a fish hook through my skull.
My eyes crack open to late afternoon sunlight stabbing through the bedroom curtains. The clock on Emily's nightstand glows 5:17 PM in angry red numbers. I groan, burying my face in her pillow. It still smells like her perfume, that expensive floral scent that makes my chest ache now that she's gone.
Five hours. I managed five whole hours of sleep after my shift ended at eight this morning. Emily left at noon, her silver Audi disappearing down the street while I stood in the doorway like some pathetic housewife watching her husband leave for war. Two nights, she'd said. Two nights with some client who's paying enough to take her away from me entirely.
The doorbell rings again, more insistent this time.
"Who even?" I mutter, rolling out of bed. My uniform from last night is crumpled on the floor where I dropped it. I'm still in my boxers and a t-shirt, my hair probably sticking up in every direction.
I stumble through the house, my bare feet cold against the hardwood. Everything feels wrong without Emily here. Too quiet. Too empty. Like the house is holding its breath.
I pull open the front door, squinting against the brightness.
Aunt Jessica stands on my porch in a tailored pantsuit that probably costs more than my monthly Quick Mart salary. Her brown hair is perfectly styled, her makeup minimal but flawless. She's holding her purse in both hands like a shield, her sharp features arranged into an expression I can't quite read.
"Hey, Aunty," I manage, my voice rough with sleep. "Why are you here?"
Her jaw tightens, and she looks down at her purse, her fingers adjusting the strap unnecessarily. When she meets my eyes again, something in her expression has softened, though it looks like it costs her physical effort to maintain.
"I wanted to apologize," she says, the words coming out stiff and formal. "For how I acted at dinner two weeks ago."
I blink at her, still processing the fact that she's actually standing on my doorstep. Emily's doorstep, technically. Our doorstep now, I guess.
"You drove all the way here to apologize?" The question comes out more suspicious than I intend, but I can't help it. Jessica doesn't do apologies. She does lectures and judgments and disappointed silences that make you wish she'd just yell instead.
"May I come in?" she asks, and there's something almost vulnerable in the way she says it. "I'd like to apologize to both you and Emily properly."
My stomach drops. "You can come in, but Emily's away tonight." The words taste bitter coming out. "She won't be back for a couple days."
Jessica's eyebrows rise slightly, her sharp gaze tracking over my face like she's cataloging every detail. "Away?"
"Work trip," I say, stepping back to let her in. The lie comes automatically now, smooth as glass. "She's a day trader, remember? Sometimes she has to meet clients in person."
I watch Jessica's expression shift, something calculating flickering behind her eyes before she schools her features back into polite concern. She steps past me into the foyer, her heels clicking against the hardwood in a way that makes the house feel even emptier than it already did.
"This is a lovely home," she says, looking around with the kind of professional assessment that makes me suddenly aware of every dust mote floating in the afternoon light. "Emily's done well for herself."
The comment feels loaded, like there's a 'but' waiting at the end that she's holding back. I close the door, running a hand through my messy hair self-consciously.
"Yeah, she has." I gesture vaguely toward the living room. "Do you want to sit down or something?"
Jessica nods, moving into the living room with that perfect posture that always made me feel like I was slouching even when I wasn't. She settles onto Emily's pristine white couch like she's afraid of leaving wrinkles, setting her purse carefully beside her.
I drop into the armchair across from her, suddenly hyperaware that I'm still in my boxers and a ratty t-shirt.
A faint tapping sound drifts from somewhere outside, rhythmic and persistent. I glance toward the window but dismiss it. Probably a branch hitting the siding or something.
"Aunty, you really don't have to apologize," I say, meeting her eyes. "I'm just happy you still want to be family."
Her expression softens further, the hard edges around her mouth smoothing out in a way that makes her look younger, more like the aunt who used to sneak me extra dessert when Mom wasn't looking. "Daniel, I just want what's best for you. You have to understand that."
"I know," I say, and I mean it. "But I'm really happy, Aunty. Happier than I've ever been."
Jessica's eyes track over my face, and something shifts in her expression. "You look exhausted, Daniel."
The tapping sound grows louder, more insistent.
"I didn't really get to finish sleeping after my shift," I admit, rubbing my eyes. "I only got like five hours before…"
"Do you hear that?" Jessica cuts me off, her head tilting toward the window. Her whole body has gone rigid, that professional assessment returning to her features.
"Yeah, I do." I push myself up from the armchair, padding toward the front door. The tapping has become almost frantic now, sharp little clicks against wood that make my teeth ache.
I pull the door open, ready to tell whoever's out there to knock it off.
An old woman stands on the lawn, her weathered hand cocked back with another pebble. She's got to be at least seventy, wearing a floral dress that hangs loose on her thin frame. Her gray hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and her eyes, sharp and wild, lock onto me the second the door swings open.
"Where's Emily?" she shouts, her voice cracking with age and fury.
I blink at her, my sleep-deprived brain struggling to process what I'm seeing. "I'm sorry, what?"
"My daughter-in-law!" The old woman's face contorts, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. "Where is that murdering whore?"
The words hit me like a physical blow. I grip the doorframe, suddenly wide awake. "What?"
"Emily murdered my son!" she screams, and another rock flies from her hand, bouncing off the doorframe inches from my head. "She killed him! She killed my boy!"
My heart slams against my ribs. Behind me, I hear Jessica stand up, her heels clicking rapidly across the floor.
"Daniel, get away from the door," Jessica says, her voice sharp with authority.
But I can't move. I'm frozen, staring at this old woman who's now sobbing openly on Emily's perfect lawn, her whole body shaking with grief and rage.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I manage, my voice coming out weaker than I intend. "Emily hasn't murdered anyone."
"I know she did it!" The old woman's voice cracks, raw and desperate. Her face contorts with rage and grief in equal measure. "That lying whore! I know he's not missing. Franklin would never just leave us. Never!"
She's sobbing now, her thin frame shaking as she clutches another handful of pebbles. "She won't let me see my granddaughter! Won't let me have anything!"
The rock leaves her hand before I can react. It bounces off my forehead with a dull thunk, and I stumble back a step. It doesn't really hurt, just a light sting, but the shock of it makes my brain stutter.
I feel so fucking lost. This woman is talking about Emily like she's some kind of monster, and I don't understand any of it. Franklin? Granddaughter? Is that Holly's father?
"Ma'am, I think you have the wrong…"
A man comes sprinting across the lawn, his work boots pounding against the grass. He's maybe forty, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, his face flushed with exertion and panic. He grabs the old woman by the shoulders, pulling her back.
"Mom! Mom, stop!" His voice is urgent, desperate. He positions himself between her and me, his hands gripping her arms to keep her from throwing more rocks. "That's not Emily. You're confused."
The old woman struggles against him, her wild eyes still locked on me. "But this is her house! I know it is!"
"I'm sure she's already moved," the man says, his voice gentler now as he tries to guide his mother away. His eyes find mine over her shoulder, and I see genuine distress there. Embarrassment. "I'm so sorry. She gets confused sometimes."
I stand there in the doorway, my hand pressed to my forehead where the pebble hit, watching this man wrestle his sobbing mother toward a beat-up sedan parked on the street. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Jessica steps out from behind me, her heels clicking purposefully across the porch. Her voice cuts through the chaos with surgical precision.
"You're looking for Emily Sampson?"
The old woman's head whips toward Jessica's voice, her tear-streaked face contorting with fresh rage. "She didn't even keep the name?" The words come out as a shriek, raw and broken. "That fucking traitor!"
The son tightens his grip on his mother's shoulders, trying to pull her back toward the car, but she's thrashing now, fighting against him with surprising strength for someone her age.
"Emily still lives here," the man says, his eyes darting between Jessica and me. There's something apologetic in his expression, but also resigned, like this isn't the first time he's had to clean up after his mother's outbursts.
Jessica's head tilts slightly, and I catch the shift in her posture. She's interested now, that calculating expression settling over her features like a mask. "She does."
The confirmation seems to drain something from the man. His shoulders sag, and he redoubles his efforts to guide his mother away. "Look, I'll leave you two be. I'm sorry for bothering you."
But the old woman isn't done. She wrenches herself partially free, pointing a trembling finger at the house, at me, at everything. "Only hell awaits murderers like Emily!" Her voice cracks, breaking into sobs between words. "She's going to burn for killing my Franklin! She's going to burn!"
The door slams shut. Jessica's hand is on the handle, her body blocking the entrance like she's afraid the old woman might charge through. The muffled sounds of crying and the man's soothing voice filter through the wood, growing fainter as they move toward the street.
I stand frozen in the foyer, my hand still pressed to my forehead. My brain feels like it's short-circuiting, trying to process what just happened. The woman's words echo in my skull on repeat.
"Daniel." Jessica's voice is sharp, cutting through the fog. "Did you know about any of this?"
I turn to look at her, and something cold settles in my stomach at the expression on her face. She's not shocked. She's not even surprised. She looks vindicated, like someone just confirmed a theory she's been nursing for months.
"I just know Emily has an ex-husband," I say, my voice coming out defensive. "And that Holly's my age." I swallow hard, feeling the weight of Jessica's stare. "I've never really asked about him though."
Jessica's eyes widen, and she takes a deep breath that seems to fill her entire body. When she speaks, her voice carries an urgency that makes my stomach clench. "You have to come with me right now, Daniel. I have a very bad feeling about this."
"No." The word comes out harder than I intend. "Enough. That woman clearly had something going on with her."
Jessica's expression shifts, hardening into something I recognize from my childhood. That look she'd get when I'd try to defend Mom's latest disappearance or excuse. "Daniel, listen to yourself. A woman just showed up at your door accusing your wife of murder."
"She was confused," I insist, my hand dropping from my forehead. "Her son said so himself. She gets confused."
"Convenient." Jessica crosses her arms, her perfectly manicured nails drumming against her bicep. "Very convenient that Emily's ex-husband is apparently missing and his mother thinks…"
"Stop." I hold up my hand, feeling anger spark in my chest. "You came here to apologize, remember? Not to start more shit about Emily."
Jessica's jaw tightens, but I see something else flash across her face. Concern, maybe. Or fear. "I did come to apologize. But Daniel, you have to admit this is concerning. That woman knew Emily's name. Knew this address."
"So what?" I move past her toward the kitchen, needing to put distance between us. "Lots of people know Emily. She's lived here for years."
"Daniel…"
"Aunty." The word comes out cold, harder than anything I've ever said to her before. "I think I'd like for you to leave."
Jessica's mouth opens slightly, genuine surprise flickering across her features. In all the years she's known me, through all of Mom's bullshit and my quiet acceptance of whatever judgment she wanted to pass, I've never once told her to go.
"Daniel, I'm just trying to…"
"No." I cut her off, my voice steady despite the trembling starting in my hands. "Emily is my wife. I trust her." Each word feels like I'm building a wall between us, brick by brick. "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for all of this."
Jessica stares at me like I've grown a second head. Her purse slips slightly in her grip, and she adjusts it with shaking fingers. "You can't be serious right now."
"I am." I move toward the front door, opening it wide. The afternoon sunlight streams in, harsh and unforgiving. "Thank you for coming to apologize. But I think you should go now."
Her heels click against the hardwood as she approaches, but she pauses in the doorway. Her hand reaches out like she wants to touch my arm, then drops. "Daniel, please. Just think about what that woman said. Think about…"
"Goodbye, Aunty."