I was heading on a business trip when my flight was canceled. I came home early and opened the door to a stranger wearing my robe. She smiled and said, ‘You’re the realtor, right?’ I nodded and stepped inside.

Something about that felt… deliberate.

“You trusted him?” I asked.

She laughed bitterly. “He seemed charming. Convincing. Said he was helping a friend sell.”

My stomach dropped.

“Did he mention me?” I asked.

She shook her head.

Of course he hadn’t.

I ran a hand through my hair. “Okay. We’ll do this calmly. You can stay here tonight.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“I’ll take the couch.”

“That’s… incredibly generous.”

“It’s also my mess to clean up.”

She exhaled slowly, relief melting her tension.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m Mara.”

I told her my name.

That night, neither of us slept much.

The apartment felt smaller with another presence in it. Every creak sounded louder. Every shadow seemed to watch.

Around midnight, I heard her crying quietly in the bathroom.

I didn’t knock. I just sat outside the door.

“You didn’t deserve this,” I said through the wood.

She sniffed. “Neither did you.”

By morning, we had a plan.

By afternoon, we had a problem.

My ex wasn’t answering calls.

By evening, we had a realization neither of us wanted to say out loud.

He hadn’t just scammed her.

He’d planned for me to be gone.

The canceled flight wasn’t coincidence.

And the lockbox?

That was an invitation.

To someone.

Or something.

Mara stood beside me in the living room, robe now replaced by borrowed clothes.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” she asked.

I stared at the door.

“Yes,” I said.

And for the first time since I walked in, I locked it.