Except he believed I wasn’t there.
That realization somehow frightened me more than the break-in itself.
He had done this before.
Maybe many times.
Suddenly small things from the past several weeks returned to me with ugly clarity.
A kitchen chair I could have sworn I’d pushed completely under the table.
A bathroom cabinet that had been left slightly open.
A stack of mail turned sideways on the counter.
Once, my bedroom window had been unlocked even though I was almost certain I had locked it.
I had blamed myself every time.
I had been tired.
Distracted.
Forgetful.
Now I wondered how many of those little mistakes hadn’t been mine at all.
The mattress dipped again.
He had sat on the edge of my bed.
I could hear his breathing.
Then his phone buzzed.
He answered immediately.
His work voice appeared as if someone had flipped a switch.
Calm.
Professional.
Patient.
“Yes, I saw the numbers.
Send them over and I’ll review them this afternoon.”
I almost laughed from the shock of it.
That was the voice I knew from meetings.
The voice that asked me for reports.
The voice that had told me only hours earlier to rest.
He ended the call.
The pleasant tone vanished.
“Idiot,” he muttered.
The bed rose as he stood.
He walked out of my bedroom.
I heard cabinets opening in the hallway, then footsteps toward the kitchen.
I knew I should stay hidden until help arrived.
Every sensible instinct told me not to move.
But I also knew the recording in my hand might be the only proof I ever got of what was happening.
So I kept recording.
From the kitchen came the sound of a drawer sliding open.
Then another.
A cupboard door closed.
My manager began talking again, louder this time.
“You don’t get to decide when you’re finished, Marcus.”
A pause.
“I decide.”
That was when I finally understood that whatever had brought him into my home had something to do with work—or at least with the way he thought about me at work.
He had always been controlling, but in ways that were easy to excuse individually.
He wanted to know where everyone was.
He noticed when someone returned five minutes late from lunch.
He questioned changes in schedules that didn’t concern him.
With me, it had gradually become more personal.
Why had I left the office at exactly five?
Who had I eaten lunch with?
Why had I updated my résumé online?
I had dismissed it as micromanagement.
