The doorbell rang at exactly 6:02 p.m., the same precise minute Ethan's mother always aimed for when she said "around six."
Ethan smoothed his shirt one last time, exhaled like he was stepping into surgery, and opened the door.
Margaret Hayes stood on the welcome mat in pearls and a cream cardigan, smile polite but tight around the edges. Behind her, Dr. Robert Hayes—retired orthopedist, still built like he could reset a dislocated shoulder without breaking a sweat—carried the bottle of pinot noir they always brought, like a peace offering wrapped in glass.
"Darling," Margaret said, air-kissing both cheeks. "The house is… impressive."
Robert nodded once, eyes already scanning the open-concept living room, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the faint city glow creeping in like an uninvited guest. "Security looks solid."
Ethan forced a smile. "Come in. Alex is just finishing up in the kitchen."
They stepped inside.
