I closed the door quietly behind her and hung the coat on the hallway rack.

For a moment I simply watched her walk deeper into the house as though she had visited dozens of times before.

Perhaps she had.

The Assumption

She was probably around twenty-five years old, with long blonde hair that fell carefully across the shoulders of a dress that almost certainly cost more than most people’s monthly rent, and she carried herself with the effortless confidence of someone who had rarely been questioned about her presence in places she did not truly belong.

She stopped in the center of the living room and looked back at me for the first time.

Her expression suggested mild annoyance.

“Where is Richard?” she asked.

“He’s not home right now,” I replied.

She frowned slightly.

“And when will he be back? I really don’t have all afternoon to wait.”

I studied her face for a moment.