The Door and the Dark

The engine idled in the drive like a held breath. Jake parted the curtain with two fingers, checked the porch, and opened the door. Two figures stood in the weak light, rain beading on their jackets. The woman introduced herself as Detective Latham and the man as Deputy Cole. Renee hovered by the table with her arms folded tight across her ribs. The box with the photograph and the painted shell sat open where she had left it. Latham’s gaze landed on it and stayed before she looked up.

“Thank you for calling,” she said. “We have next steps.”

“We found a vehicle at the regional airport,” Latham continued. “It is registered to Michael Reed. One door was ajar, and the trunk latch was loose. We recovered a phone, a small backpack, and a water taxi receipt on the island. There was no sign of him near the vehicle.”

Renee swallowed and asked quietly, “Is he missing?”

“For now, yes,” Latham replied. “He is a person of interest and also a possible welfare concern. We are coordinating with resort security and state patrol. That is why we came tonight rather than wait for morning. We need cooperation.”

Jake set the box between them and slowly walked through the timeline. “We arrived on the island, the door to our cabin was left open, then the call, then this parcel.” Cole wrote everything in small, neat letters. Latham studied the glossy print without touching it. “The timestamp matches resort camera time,” she said. “Whoever took this stood outside the railing in a restricted zone. That suggests preparation, not impulse.”

Renee felt heat prick the back of her neck. “He watched us,” she said. Latham nodded once and did not soften the truth. “You were targeted with intent that night.” She continued, “We can petition for a protective order today. I also want a full security sweep of the house and your vehicles. We will add targeted patrols on your road for two weeks. It will not feel like enough, but it creates pressure and visibility.”

Cole asked, “Do you have family returning soon?”

“The boys are with my mother,” Renee answered. “They were supposed to come home tonight.”

“Keep them there through the weekend,” Latham said. “Vary your routines and call us first if anything changes. We will coordinate quietly with your neighbors. Expect patrols near your lane.”

They left business cards and a list of steps that felt like armor. When the door closed, Jake locked it and stood still for a count of five. Renee stared at the seashell in its clear bag, the tiny painted heart now a mark that made her stomach roll. She closed the seal and pushed the bag away as if distance could drain its meaning. Jake moved with quiet focus, testing latches, checking windows, lowering shades, and breathing through anger until his hands stopped shaking. The house answered with small creaks and the hum of the refrigerator.

The technician arrived before noon with a hard case and a flat light. She introduced herself as Cam and asked for keys. She slid under the truck on a dolly, her lamp cutting a thin blue line along metal and bolts. Ten minutes later, she stood up with a small black puck inside an evidence sleeve. “Tracker,” she said. “Cellular, magnetic mount, still active. It was tucked behind the rear fender liner.”

Renee’s throat tightened. “He knew where we were,” she whispered. Cam nodded once, recorded the location, and moved on without comment. The proof felt brutally simple. And undeniable. Cam swept the second car, then the porch and the barn camera housings. Inside, the blue beam traced vents, outlets, frames, and the lip of the mantel. She paused at a wooden keepsake box on the shelf, lifted the velvet insert, and pried at the thin backing. A thumb-sized cylinder stared back with a pinhole eye.

“Audio recorder,” Cam said. “Battery powered. Cheap but effective. It has been here a while.”

Jake exhaled through his nose and told her, “Take it. Take everything.” By late afternoon, the rooms felt scrubbed and raw. The porch light timed on against a sky the color of wet slate. A patrol car rolled slowly at the top of each hour. Latham called to say the order had been filed and would be served if or when Mike was located. Renee brewed tea and did not drink it. She opened her grief notebook and wrote three lines. I am home. I am not alone. I am still afraid. The words were plain and heavier than they looked on paper. Writing steadied her breath and slowed the spin.

“We live anyway,” she told Jake. “We do not let him decide how we love or how we stay.” Jake rested his palm over hers. “That part is not his.” They ate standing up, then walked the fence line with a new flashlight in a slow loop that felt like prayer. Back inside, Jake adjusted the camera angles and showed her the app. Four clean feeds looked back. Porch. Barn. Drive. Hedgerow. It was a strange comfort and still a comfort all the same.

They went to bed early and lay on their backs in the dim with the door open to the hall light. Sleep came in pieces. Renee woke at one to rain ticking on the gutter, at two to the house settling, and at three to nothing at all. Each time Jake’s hand found the small of her back and stayed there until her breath lengthened.

Toward dawn, her phone buzzed on the nightstand with a number she did not know. A file arrived without a message and sat waiting. She looked at Jake, then tapped the screen. She opened it because not opening it felt like losing ground. The audio began with waves. Wind pressed against a microphone. Her own voice rose under the surf, soft and laughing. Please don’t move, you will make me fall.

Jake’s reply followed, warm and near. I will never let you fall.

The ocean swelled and thinned to a hiss. The file ended. Jake pushed up on an elbow and listened with her. His jaw worked, and the silence after the recording felt louder than the sound itself. It made the bedroom feel small, and the night suddenly woke both. The porch camera chimed on the app with a single note. “Motion detected.” Jake tapped the feed. A figure stood at the edge of the light, just beyond the circle where the image sharpened. A hood hid the face. The stance was not. Shoulders tight, chin lowered, weight leaning forward like someone staring down a line he meant to cross. Renee felt it in her bones without need for proof. Jake stood and reached for his phone. The camera pinged again.

“Drive feed,” he said quietly. A second shape moved near the hedge. Headlights glowed. Someone stopped at their gate. Waiting.