Page 4 of Jessica's Hero
“Right,” I agree, pitching my voice loud enough for him to hear it. “Hope you enjoy your weekend.”
And with another quick wave, I hurry towards the front door, blinking as a few snowflakes blow into my eyes.
I should really get the garage cleaned out, I remind myself for the umpteenth time. I’ve been putting it off for longer than I’d like to admit, reluctant to go through all the boxes of my mom’s things. But it would be nice to actually be able to use the garage, especially when it snows.
Maybe I’ll tackle a few boxes this weekend, at least. See if there’s any clothing worth taking to the thrift shop or community center. That would be infinitely more useful than leaving dozens of perfectly good items sitting in plastic bins in the garage.
I fumble with the key a few times before sliding it home, my partially-numb fingers not wanting to work as I tell them to.
Gloves, I add to my mental to-do list. I need to stash gloves in my purse and car instead of leaving them all in a tote in the closet, where they are doing absolutely nothing to keep my hands warm.
Boy. If I’d known that at thirty-five, I’d be having this many conversations with myself… Now all I need are a few cats and I’ll officially hit spinster status.
As I step into the house, the familiar scent of my cinnamon vanilla air freshener is the first thing that hits me. I love the aroma because it reminds me of baking, which apart from online gaming and mystery movies, is my next favorite thing. I lock the door behind me and make my way towards the kitchen, eager to unload my bags that seem to be getting heavier by the second.
I have a few lights on timers, so they’re already on, casting a soft glow in the entryway and living room. On my way through, I click on the electric fireplace, which doesn’t do much in terms of heat but is great for ambiance.
I’m so focused on my after work routine, I don’t notice the difference right away.
It’s only as I’m turning away from the fireplace that I notice—my armchair’s no longer on the right side of the couch, but the left.
It’s so jarring, my feet stutter to a stop.
My gaze swings back and forth between the couch and the chair, a matching set I bought last year in an attempt to brighten up the living room.
For a moment, my mind resists what I’m seeing.
I sit on that couch every evening. I glance over at the pale-gray chair all the time. I stop to fluff the pillow and rearrange the rose-hued throw draped across the back at least every few days or so. So I couldn’t forget where the chair usually sits.
To the right side. Where there’s now an empty space.
But it can’t be. Furniture doesn’t just get up and move by itself.
Am I losing my mind?
My heart skittering like a panicked rabbit, I spin around in a circle, scanning the room.
Rationalizations fly through my head. I’m just tired. Somehow I moved the chair and forgot about it. Nora is playing a joke on me.
Except I know none of those are true.
And then I see the next thing, and my heart lurches into my throat.
The photo on the wall, the one of me and my mom, is still in the same spot, but now it’s flipped upside down.
My breath seizes.
On the second inspection of the living room, I spot something else.
All the books on my shelves are rearranged. Instead of by genre—horror at one end, romance the other, now all the books are sorted by color.
What?
Could Thea be behind this? She’s a librarian, so maybe she thought moving around my books would be amusing?
But I’m dismissing that idea as quickly as I came up with it. Thea is nice and smart and funny, but the odds of her breaking into my house to move my books around are practically zero.
As I’m staring at the bookshelves in confusion, another difference jumps out at me.
