I found the key under the mat and a note. Jane, Sorry there’s nothing to eat. Was going to go grocery shopping. Too many emergencies. I think there’s a can of tomato soup in the pantry. Should be home in time for the track meet tomorrow. But don’t wait for me. I crumpled the note and slipped it into my pocket. Once inside, I went from room to room and opened windows, a facade for letting in fresh air, but my true intent was to test my presence in each room. What if this were my house? What if I lived here with Brad? What if this were my kitchen? My living room. My dining room. My patio. I went upstairs and into the guest room and imagined Connor sleeping there during Christmas vacation and his summer break. I pictured his posters of the Boston Marathon and New Zealand on the walls and his trophies from high school on a shelf above the dresser. And his ball caps on the posts of the bed. Then I went into the bedroom. And I pictured a different bed. Not that one. And not the one that is in our apartment in Manhattan.
