Part 1

The first week in a new house is supposed to feel like a reset.

Fresh paint, unfamiliar creaks, and a quiet hope that whatever followed you from the last place won’t track you here.

Mine didn’t even make it to day eight.

It was late afternoon in Beaverton, the kind of Oregon gray that turns every window into a dull mirror. I stood in the workshop behind my garage, hands slick with grease from a stubborn hinge, listening to rain tap against the roof like impatient fingers.

The air smelled of cedar and machine oil—about the only scents that still felt familiar since Patricia died. Three years on, and I still caught myself fixing things as if she might step outside, wrinkle her nose, and say, “Vincent Carter, you’re going to ruin that shirt.”

I didn’t have good shirts anymore. Just ones that fit, ones that didn’t, and a jacket I kept wearing because if I pressed the collar close, it still carried a trace of her perfume.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Unknown number.

In a small town, you answer those. It’s the plumber, the pharmacy, the kid from the hardware store, or a neighbor looking for a lost dog.

I wiped my hands on my jeans and picked up.

“Mr. Carter?” The voice was tight, breathless, like he’d been running.

“Yes.” I kept my tone steady out of habit. Forty years in engineering teaches you that panic doesn’t solve anything—it just leads to bad decisions.

“This is Warren Phillips. I’m… the previous owner of your house.”

I glanced toward the back door, at the yard still caught between unpacked boxes and half-finished plans. I’d met Warren twice: once at closing, once when he returned a small bag of screws he said he’d left in the kitchen drawer. He was seventy-two, a retired postal worker, careful and polite in the way of someone who spent a lifetime handling other people’s mail.

“Warren,” I said, keeping it light. “Everything alright?”