Sienna
The key turned too easily.
I’d told myself I was only grabbing the charger I’d left last week. Five minutes. In and out. Uncle Caleb was supposed to be at the site until six. It was four-thirty. The apartment was quiet, blinds half-drawn, his jacket on the chair like he’d just stepped out. I found the charger on the kitchen counter, shoved it in my bag, and turned to leave.
The front door opened.
Caleb stopped in the entryway, work boots still on, eyes moving from my face to the key still in my hand. He was forty-three, broad through the shoulders, salt just starting at his temples. My mother’s brother. The one who’d given me the spare “for emergencies only” three months ago.
“Emergencies don’t usually involve my kitchen at four-thirty,” he said. His voice was calm. That made i
