That’s the thing about some kinds of cruelty. It doesn’t always break windows. It doesn’t always leave tire marks, or neighbors standing on the sidewalk in bathrobes.

Sometimes it just leaves the porch light off and trusts everyone else to mind their business.

Brian’s driveway was empty. No SUV. No rental car. No luggage. No sound from inside.

I parked crooked behind the mailbox and left the driver’s door hanging open. The front porch light was off.

I found the emergency key under the fake rock, exactly where Brian had told me it would be years earlier — back when he still sounded like a son asking his father for help instead of a man annoyed by witnesses.

My fingers scraped the lock twice before the key turned.