I’m standing at the stove, flipping pancakes as quietly as humanly possible, which turns out is not very quiet.
Every flip sounds like a small betrayal.
Pandora’s still asleep down the hall. She’s been stressed lately, so I’m trying not to wake her. That means no music, no clattering, no aggressive pancake flipping.
Just me.
And the sound of batter hitting a pan like it’s judging me.
That’s when John Mercer appears.
Not walks in.
Appears.
One second I’m alone, the next he’s standing in the doorway like he loaded in late.
He looks half-awake, but not in a normal way. More like his brain is still buffering. He blinks at me once, slowly, then says, “Morning,” without actually making eye contact.
And then he just… lingers.
That’s the first thing that feels off.
John doesn’t linger.
He commits to things. Couch, kitchen, leaving the house—whatever it is, he’s all in. This halfway-in-the-doorway stance? That’s new.
I nod back at him, waiting for him to either come in or go away.
He does neither.
That’s when I notice the bag.
Mrs. Jenkins’ cat food.
It’s sitting on the counter.
Open.
Not slightly open. Not “maybe I didn’t seal it right” open.
Open like someone went into it.
I stop flipping.
I know that bag was closed last night.
I remember because Mr. Whiskers tried to get at it, and I moved it further back on the counter specifically so he couldn’t.
He’s a cat, not a locksmith.
There’s no way he opened that.
Which means someone did.
I glance at John.
He’s looking at the counter now.
Not casually.
Specifically.
Then he looks away the second I notice.
Okay.
That’s not nothing.
“Did you open that?” I ask, keeping my voice low so I don’t wake Pandora.
He pauses.
Just a little too long.
Then shrugs. “No idea.”
No idea.
That’s not an answer.
That’s a placeholder.
I turn back to the stove, but I’m not really cooking anymore. I’m thinking.
Because now there are two things that don’t line up:
The cat food bag.
And John.
I try to play it off. Keep things normal. Flip the pancakes. Plate them. Move like I’m not actively reevaluating the last twelve hours of my life.
Behind me, I can hear John moving now. Cabinets opening. A bowl being taken out. The cereal box rustling.
Of course it’s cereal.
It’s always cereal now.
I glance back just enough to see him pouring a bowl like nothing is happening.
Like the open cat food bag isn’t sitting three feet away.
Like he didn’t just hesitate before answering a very simple question.
“Sleep okay?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah.”
Short.
Too short.
John is not a “yeah” person.
He’s a “yeah, I stayed up too late watching something I won’t recommend to you” person.
This is different.
I set the plate down on the table and sit, but I don’t eat.
I’m watching.
Not obviously.
Just enough.
John leans against the counter, eating his cereal. Not sitting. Not relaxed. Just… positioned.
Like he wants to keep the whole kitchen in view.
That’s when I remember last night.
Pandora was acting off.
Not dramatically. Subtle.
In and out of the room. Little excuses. “I forgot something.” “I need to check something.” Nothing you could point to on its own, but now…
Now it feels connected.
Mrs. Jenkins said she saw someone come by late.
At the time, I didn’t think much of it.
Now I’m thinking maybe I should have.
I look at the cat food bag again.
Still open.
Still wrong.
And then I notice something else.
There are small pieces missing.
Not a lot.
Just enough.
Measured.
Like someone took a handful and stopped.
I look down.
Mr. Whiskers is sitting near the kitchen door.
Watching the same spot on the wall he’s been obsessed with lately.
He’s not scratching right now.
Just staring.
Waiting.
Like he knows something’s there.
Or like he’s waiting for something to happen again.
I follow his line of sight.
Wall.
Baseboard.
Nothing obvious.
But I’ve seen him scratch there before. Repeatedly. Same spot.
Cats don’t do that for no reason.
I look back at John.
He’s watching me now.
Not fully.
Just from the corner of his eye.
Like he’s checking if I’ve noticed something.
I grab my fork and finally take a bite of pancake, mostly to prove to myself that I’m still part of a normal morning.
I’m not convinced.
Because now I’ve got a sequence:
Open bag.
John acting off.
Pandora distracted last night.
Mrs. Jenkins seeing someone.
Mr. Whiskers fixated on the wall.
None of that proves anything.
But it’s not random.
And John—
John isn’t just standing in the kitchen.
He’s tracking something.
Maybe me.
Maybe the room.
Maybe that spot on the wall.
I don’t know what he’s doing.
But I’m pretty sure of one thing now.
He didn’t just walk in here by accident.