He wanted me to slide to the floor and weep.

I forced my shoulders down and took a deep, slow breath.

I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear.

A heavy shadow suddenly fell across the open doorway.

I gasped, dropping my phone onto the granite countertop.

A tall figure stepped into the light of the foyer.

It was Detective Harris.

He wore his grey wool trench coat, damp with the evening mist.

His hand rested near his leather belt, close to his holster.

“Evening, Clara,” Harris said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

“I saw your front door standing open.”

“The wind caught it,” I lied, my voice shaking.

I walked toward him, trying to position myself between him and the kitchen island.

Harris looked past me, his eyes scanning the high-tech appliances and the polished stone counters.

“The lock was clicking when I walked up the driveway,” Harris said.

“Sounds like you have a malfunction.”

“It is just a glitch in the smart home system,” I said.

“I need to call the company in the morning to reset the panel.”