Changing the Locks

"Changing the locks," I said, watching the locksmith drive away. "That should fix it."

It was 9 PM on a Wednesday. The humid Georgia air was finally cooling, but I was sweating. The key in my hand was heavy, new, and mine. The old deadbolt lay in the trash can, a relic of a time when I thought I was safe.

"Are you happy now?" Marcus asked. He was standing in the doorway, eating a slice of pizza he hadn't offered to share. "We spent two hundred dollars because you saw a coaster move."

"And a receipt," I said, turning the key in the lock. The click was satisfying. Solid. "And the smell of paint. And the fact that my landlord is dodging my calls like he owes me money."

"Which he doesn't," Marcus pointed out, his mouth full. "Technically, we owe him rent in three days."

I ignored him. I walked inside and locked the door behind me. I checked the back door. Locked. I checked the garage door. Locked.

"We're safe," I whispered.

But safety felt like a lie. It felt like "Agreeable Grey" paint covering up a crime scene.

I went to bed early, leaving Marcus on the couch with his headset and his denial. I needed to sleep. I needed to reset my brain so I could edit fifty pages of cardiac warnings tomorrow without hallucinating.

I woke up at 7 AM. The sun was streaming through the windows, bright and cheerful. The "Clean Linen" smell was gone, replaced by the comforting scent of stale pizza and coffee.

I walked into the kitchen. Marcus was still asleep on the couch, snoring softly.

I made coffee. I opened my laptop. I checked my email.

No new messages from Gary. No notifications from the smart lock.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe Marcus was right. Maybe I was spiraling. Maybe the Zillow listing was a glitch, the paint receipt was a mistake, and the nursery was just a stress dream brought on by my mother's constant nagging about grandchildren.

I took a sip of coffee and opened Zillow. Just to check. Just to be sure.

The listing was still there.

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

I scrolled through the photos. The living room. The kitchen. The nursery.

And then, I saw it.

A new photo, added to the carousel at 6:15 AM this morning.

It showed my kitchen counter. The granite was clean, except for a single object sitting in the center of the frame.

A set of keys.

Not just any keys.

Two shiny, brass keys with a distinctive square head.

The new keys. The ones the locksmith had cut for me last night.

The ones I had put on the hook by the door before I went to bed.

I looked at the hook.

It was empty.

I looked back at the photo.

In the background, out of focus but unmistakable, was a figure sleeping on the couch.

Marcus.

Someone had been in the house while we slept. They had taken a photo of my new keys. They had uploaded it to Zillow.

And they were still holding the keys.

My phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number.

*Nice try, Thea. But locks only work if you're the only one with a key.*

I dropped the phone. It clattered against the counter, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent house.

I looked at Marcus. He was still sleeping. He didn't know. He didn't know that we weren't tenants anymore.

We were squatters in a house that someone else already owned.

And the new owner had just let themselves in.