The chain clicked off. She stepped back into the light of her own apartment and let him see what she had made of 400 square ft and not enough money. The couch faced the window instead of the television. A blue blanket folded with military precision over its back. A row of tiny shoes lined up beside the mat.
Two sizes at least. Smallest pair scuffed at the toes from running. A pink backpack hung on a hook near the kitchen. Unicorn patch half- peeled. Glitter shedding onto the lenolium.
The only real mess was a scatter of crayons across the coffee table and a coloring book open to a half-finished cartoon fox missing most of its fur. Lauren Hayes, 30 years old, though her eyes carried the mileage of someone who had crossed 40 on foot. She leaned a hip against the counter and wrapped her arms around herself like the room was cold. Even though the thermostat read 71, Marcus had seen that posture before, it was not about temperature. It was about perimeter.
He crouched beside the frame and ran his thumb along the damage. Cheap soft wood, the kind a fingernail could scar. The crack ran at shoulder height, splintered inward, and the factory strike plate had been ripped half out of its seat. The screws, 3/4 in zinc, had pulled through the particle board like thread through wet paper. Someone put weight on this door.
Last week, my ex, he's not on the lease. I told him he can't just show up anymore. He didn't appreciate the update. She said it the way a weather anchor reads a weekend forecast. Just facts, barometric pressure, no drama.
Marcus recognized that voice, too. It belonged to women who had learned that showing emotion around the wrong man turned emotion into ammunition. You call the police? I did. They came after he left.
Told me to get the lock looked at and keep the chain on and call again if he comes back. Her mouth twisted on that last phrase, a tiny spasm of knowledge that both of them shared without saying it aloud. Call again. As if repetition were a form of protection. Marcus nodded once and opened his bag.
Drill, chisel, 3-in deck screws rated for outdoor framing, and a solid reinforced strike plate he had bought himself for $12. Because Matt would never approve the expense. You cannot change a woman's whole life with a door, but you can make it harder for trouble to walk in without announcing itself. He set the chisel against the crushed wood and began tapping. Each stroke of the hammer knocked loose soft fibers and sent a sharp, rhythmic report through the quiet room.