It's Just a Glitch

"It's just a glitch," Marcus said, his thumb flicking across the screen of my phone with a casual indifference that made my teeth ache. "Zillow pulls cached data all the time. It’s probably from when Gary tried to sell the place before you moved in."

I sat on the edge of the couch, watching him. He was sprawled on the grey sectional—*my* sectional, the one that had been moved in the photo—wearing the same "World's Okayest Sous Chef" t-shirt he’d had on for two days. He looked comfortable. He looked like a man who didn't pay rent, didn't notice when the milk was expired, and certainly didn't notice when his girlfriend's reality was fracturing.

"It's not old data, Marcus," I said, taking the phone back. My voice was steady, but my pulse was a frantic typo in the margin of my wrist. "Look at the rug. That’s not the rug Gary had in the listing photos three years ago. That’s a beige jute rug. And the timestamp... it says yesterday."

Marcus sighed, a long, exaggerated exhale that smelled of vape juice and condescension. "Babe. You're spiraling. You've been staring at those defibrillator manuals for ten hours straight. Your brain is frying. It's like when you thought the barista wrote 'Help' on your cup, but it was just 'Hot'."

I looked down at the photo again. The nursery. The white crib. The mobile of felt clouds.

"Explain the crib, then," I said. "Why would there be a crib in my office?"

"Maybe it's a similar unit," he said, reaching for the bag of chips on the coffee table. "All these cookie-cutter houses look the same. Same floor plan, same weird moulding. Gary probably owns like ten of them."

"Gary owns two properties," I corrected him. "This one and the duplex in Decatur where his ex-wife lives. I checked the tax records when I moved in."

"Jesus, Thea. You checked the tax records?" Marcus laughed, a short, sharp sound. "You really need a hobby that isn't paranoia. Look, if you're so worried, call him. Ask him why he's selling the house out from under you."

I had already called Gary. Twice. Both times it went straight to voicemail, a gravelly recording that sounded like he was speaking from inside a wind tunnel. *'Leave a message. Unless you're selling solar panels. Then hang up.'*

"He's not answering," I said.

"So he's busy. Or he's playing poker. Or he's sleeping." Marcus leaned back, closing his eyes. "Just relax. It's a glitch. The internet is broken half the time anyway."

I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him. It was so much easier to be the "crazy girlfriend" than the victim of a home invasion that left no trace. The Fawn Response kicked in, a warm, numbing wave of compliance. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was just tired. Maybe the stress of the student loans and the freelance hustle was finally making me see things that weren't there.

"I'm sorry," I said, the words tasting like ash. "You're probably right. I'm just... edgy."

"You're always edgy," Marcus mumbled, not opening his eyes. "Come here. Let me rub your shoulders."

I let him pull me down onto the couch. His hands were warm, heavy. For a moment, I let myself sink into the comfort of being told I was wrong. It was a seduction, this idea that my fear was just a malfunction of my own brain.

But as his thumbs dug into the knots in my neck, my eyes drifted to the kitchen counter.

To the trash can.

I had emptied it this morning before I left for the coffee shop. I remembered because the bag had snagged on the cabinet handle and torn, spilling coffee grounds onto the floor. I had cursed, double-bagged it, and taken it out to the curb. The can should be empty.

It wasn't.

There was a single, crumpled piece of paper sitting at the bottom of the clean white liner.

I pulled away from Marcus.

"What?" he asked, annoyed.

"Nothing," I said. "I just... forgot to take my vitamins."

I walked into the kitchen. My heart was hammering a rhythm that felt dangerous, like a drum solo in a library. I reached into the trash can and pulled out the paper.

It was a receipt.

*Home Depot - Buckhead Station.*
*Date: October 15, 10:42 AM.*
*Item: Behr Premium Plus Interior Satin Enamel - 1 Gallon.*
*Color: Swiss Coffee.*

October 15. Today.

10:42 AM. I was at the coffee shop. Marcus was... where was Marcus?

"Did you go to Home Depot today?" I asked, turning around.

Marcus opened one eye. "What? No. I've been here all day. Playing 2K."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Why?"

I held up the receipt. "Because someone bought paint this morning. And they threw the receipt away in our kitchen."

Marcus sat up, frowning. "Let me see that."

He took the receipt, smoothing it out on his knee. He looked at the time. He looked at the item. Then he shrugged.

"Maybe it stuck to the bottom of the bag," he said. "Or maybe Gary dropped by."

"Gary has a key," I said. "But he would have called. And why would he buy paint? The walls are fine."

"Maybe he's touching up," Marcus said. "Look, Thea, you're doing it again. You're finding patterns in noise. It's a receipt. It's trash. It probably blew in when you opened the door."

"It blew into the bottom of a trash can inside a cabinet?"

"Stranger things have happened," he said, handing it back. "Seriously. Chill. You're making me anxious."

I looked at the receipt again. *Swiss Coffee.* It was a white. A creamy, off-white. The kind of color you use to stage a house for sale because it photographs well.

The kind of color that covers up "Agreeable Grey."

I walked into the hallway. I ran my hand along the wall. It felt cool, smooth. Grey.

But as I reached the end of the hall, near the door to the garage, I smelled it.

Faint. Sharp. Chemical.

Fresh paint.

I looked at the door to the garage. It was locked. I kept it locked because the garage was full of the "junk" I was slowly liquidating on eBay—old lamps, a dusty collection of porcelain dolls, a box of vintage cameras. Gary used it for storage, but he hadn't been in there for months.

"Marcus," I said. "Do you smell that?"

"Smell what?" he called from the living room. "Dinner? Because I haven't started yet."

"Paint," I said. "It smells like paint."

I grabbed the key to the garage from the hook by the door. I unlocked it and pushed the heavy fire door open.

The smell hit me like a physical blow. Acrid. thick.

I flipped the light switch.

The garage was... organized.

The boxes of junk were pushed against the walls, stacked in neat, symmetrical towers. The floor had been swept. And in the center of the concrete slab, sitting on a drop cloth I didn't own, was a can of paint.

*Behr Premium Plus. Swiss Coffee.*

The lid was off. A roller sat in the tray, wet with creamy white paint.

And on the back wall—the wall that had been covered in pegboard and rusty tools—there was a perfect, square patch of fresh white paint.

It wasn't a touch-up. It was a test swatch.

Someone was testing colors for my house.

I stared at the white square, my breath catching in my throat. It looked like a window into a void. A blank space where my life used to be.

"Marcus!" I screamed.

He appeared in the doorway a second later, looking annoyed, but when he saw the paint can, his expression shifted. Not to fear. Not to confusion.

To guilt.

It was a micro-expression, gone in a flash, but I saw it. I edited manuals for a living; I noticed when things didn't align.

"What the hell?" he said, his voice a little too loud. "Who did this?"

"You told me you were here all day," I said, stepping toward him. "You said you didn't go to Home Depot."

"I didn't!" he said, holding up his hands. "I swear, Thea. I've been on the couch since you left."

"Then who is painting the garage?" I pointed at the wet roller. "Gary? Did Gary sneak past you while you were playing video games?"

Marcus looked at the paint can, then at me. "Maybe... maybe he came in through the side door? I had my headset on. I might not have heard him."

"The side door is deadbolted from the inside," I said. "I checked it last night."

"Okay, so maybe he has a key to that too. He's the landlord, Thea. He can come in whenever he wants."

"Not without notice," I said. "Not to paint test swatches while I'm at work."

I walked over to the paint can. I wanted to kick it over. I wanted to ruin the perfect white surface. But I didn't. I just stared at it.

And then I saw something else.

Next to the paint tray, sitting on the concrete floor, was a small, black object.

It looked like a USB drive. Or a key fob.

I picked it up. It was heavy, cold.

It wasn't a drive.

It was a decoder. A Realtor's electronic key. The kind they use to open the lockboxes on houses for sale.

"What is that?" Marcus asked, stepping closer.

"It's a key," I whispered. "For a lockbox."

I ran back into the house, through the kitchen, to the front door. I threw it open and looked at the handle.

There was no lockbox. Just my standard deadbolt.

But on the railing of the porch, hidden behind the overgrown hydrangeas, was a scratch. A deep, fresh gouge in the wood. The kind of mark a metal clamp would make if it had been attached there recently.

And then removed.

I looked at the driveway. My car was the only one there. The street was empty.

But my phone buzzed in my pocket.

A notification from the Zillow app.

*Price Drop: 104 Hydrangea Lane. Now $850,000.*

I opened the listing. The photos were back. The beige rug. The nursery. The lemons.

But there was a new photo added to the carousel.

It showed the garage.

Neat. Organized.

With a fresh coat of white paint on the back wall.

The timestamp on the photo was *Today. 4:15 PM.*

Ten minutes ago.

I looked at Marcus. He was standing in the doorway, watching me. He didn't look scared. He looked... bored. Like he was waiting for a commercial break to end.

"It's probably just an automated update," he said. "Algorithms are weird."

"An algorithm didn't paint the wall, Marcus," I said.

I looked back at the photo on my phone. In the corner of the garage, just barely visible behind a stack of boxes, was a shoe.

A red Converse high-top.

I looked down at Marcus's feet.

He was wearing socks. But by the front door, next to the shoe rack, sat his pair of red Converse.

One was upright.

The other was tipped over, as if someone had kicked it off in a hurry.

And on the toe of the left shoe, bright against the white rubber, was a single, wet drop of paint.

*Swiss Coffee.*

I looked up at him.

"You were in the garage," I said.

"No," he said. "I told you. I was on the couch."

"Then why is there paint on your shoe?"

He looked at the shoe. He blinked.

"I don't know," he said. "Maybe I stepped in it when I came to check on you just now."

"You weren't wearing shoes just now. You're in socks."

He stared at me. The silence stretched, thin and tight as a wire.

Then he smiled.

It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of someone who knows they've been caught, but also knows it doesn't matter.

"You're seeing things, babe," he said softly. "You're really losing it this time."

He turned and walked back into the living room, picking up his controller.

I stood in the foyer, the phone trembling in my hand.

I looked at the Zillow listing again.

I zoomed in on the garage photo.

The shoe in the picture wasn't Marcus's.

It was a woman's shoe. A red Converse, size 7.

I wear size 7.

I looked at the shoe rack. My red Converse were there, next to Marcus's.

But mine were clean.

So whose shoe was in the photo?

And more importantly... where was the other one?

A floorboard creaked upstairs.

In the master bedroom.

Directly above my head.