Luke said:
“Change the garage code.”
She had already thought of that.
She did it that afternoon.
Two nights later, the mirror changed again.
Then came the fuel.
Friday, Corrine filled the tank after work.
She reset the trip meter.
Habit.
Saturday she stayed home.
Sunday too.
Monday morning, the fuel needle sat slightly lower.
Corrine frowned.
She checked the trip meter.
7.8 miles.
She stared.
Seven point eight.
She had not driven the car.
Her mouth went dry.
She opened her phone notes.
Friday odometer: 48,216.
Monday: 48,224.
Eight miles.
Real.
Not imagination.
Not grief fog.
Eight miles.
Someone was using her car while she slept.
Corrine sat behind the wheel with the garage door closed.
Her heartbeat felt too loud.
She imagined possibilities.
Luke.
Impossible.
A neighbor.
Why?
A stranger somehow entering the house.
That thought frightened her most.
Because keys meant access.
If someone could take the keys and move the car, they could stand outside her bedroom.
She checked every window.
Every lock.
Front door.
Back door.
Garage.
No damage.
She pulled a chair beneath the garage handle that night.
Basil still asked to go out.
Corrine almost refused.
Then something about his urgency made her open the door.
He jumped onto the hood.
She watched him.
“You know something.”
Basil sat.
Corrine whispered:
“I wish you could talk.”
The next morning, the chair was moved.
Not far.
Six inches.
Corrine stared at it.
The car had 3.4 additional miles.
She called Iris.
Her sister listened.
Then said:
“Cameras.”
“I was thinking police.”
“What are you going to tell them?”
“That someone is taking my car.”
“Good.”
“Tell them.”
Corrine hesitated.
“What if it's me forgetting?”
Iris went quiet.
“That’s exactly why you need cameras.”
Corrine closed her eyes.
Iris continued.
“You deserve to know.”
“Whether it’s an intruder or something else.”
“Put cameras everywhere you can legally put them inside your own house.”
“Garage.”
“Hallway.”
“Front door.”
“Tonight.”
Corrine did.
Three compact cameras.
One high in the garage corner, full view of the Subaru.
One on a shelf facing the hallway from her bedroom area toward the garage.
One covering the living room and front entry.
Motion alerts.
Night vision.
Continuous recording to cloud storage.
Corrine changed the garage keypad code again.
Locked the doors.
Placed both car fobs on her bedroom dresser.
Then took a photograph of them before bed.
At 9:33, Basil walked toward the garage.
Scratch.
Meow.
Corrine looked at him.
“Fine.”
She let him in.
He jumped onto the hood.
The camera watched.
Corrine went to bed.
She expected not to sleep.
Instead she slept deeply.
Morning.
Both key fobs were on the dresser.
At least that was what she thought when she looked.
Basil was in the passenger seat.
Trip meter showed 4.2 new miles.
Corrine’s stomach dropped.
She should have checked the footage immediately.
Instead, Basil had a veterinarian appointment at nine.
Then Lena called.
Then work sent an urgent request.
Corrine delayed.
Part of her knew why.
If she watched the video, uncertainty would end.
As terrifying as uncertainty was, certainty might be worse.
Another night.
Another mileage change.
Another.
Saturday evening finally arrived.
Corrine made tea.
Opened her laptop.
Basil settled beside her.