I got up and walked to the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. Across the street, the houses were dark, their porch lights casting small halos in the autumn mist.
At 11:30 PM, I walked into the kitchen and checked the lock on the back door. The metal deadbolt was cold to the touch.
At midnight, I returned to the living room and began to pace the length of the worn Persian rug. Five steps to the television stand, five steps back to the bookshelf.
My wristwatch read 12:40 AM when the handle of the front door finally turned.
Harper slipped into the hallway, her shoulders hunched. Her dark hair was wet, sticking in flat clumps to the collar of her jacket, and her eyes were rimmed with red.
“You are nearly two hours late,” I said, stepping into the hallway.
She did not look up. She began to pull off her muddy shoes, her fingers clumsy on the wet laces.
“It was just a silly prank,” Harper whispered, her voice rough. “Someone threw a bucket of water on the porch.”
“At Mia’s house?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, her fingers twisting the silver heart necklace. “It was just a joke.”
She left her wet shoes on the mat and pushed past me, heading toward the stairs.
“Harper, your jacket is dripping,” I said, reaching out to touch her sleeve.
“Leave me alone, Mom,” she said, her voice sharp as she pulled away.
She ran up the stairs, her bare feet making a soft, rhythmic patter on the wood, before her bedroom door closed.
I stood alone in the quiet hallway while the basement dryer hums.
The morning sun came through the frosted bathroom window, casting pale, cold squares across the yellow linoleum floor.
I had gone in to gather the week’s bath towels, carrying the green plastic laundry basket that usually stayed in the dark hallway of the basement.
Instead of the pile of damp cotton I expected, my foot brushed against Harper’s yellow corduroy jacket.
