I stayed in my chair, listening to the solid sound of his leather shoes on the hardwood floor.

A second later came the distinct metallic click of a key turning in a lock.

Mark walked back past the dining room doorway toward the garage entrance, sliding a small silver office key deep into his trouser pocket.

The next morning at eight, the smell of burnt tobacco drifted down the hallway before I reached the kitchen.

Sloan stood with her hip pressed against the white quartz island, clicking a gold lighter over a fresh pack of menthols.

A thin gray cloud rose straight up toward the recessed lights.