“Mom?”
Liam's voice sounded small behind me.
I held up one hand.
Marcus turned from the kitchen counter.
He looked almost embarrassed.
“You're home.”
I stared at him.
That was all I could manage.
The apartment looked wrong.
Not destroyed.
Not robbed.
Wrong.
The dripping faucet had stopped.
The crooked cabinet above the sink was level.
The kitchen table, which had always wobbled whenever anyone leaned against it, sat solidly on all four legs.
There was a faint smell of garlic, onions, and bread.
A clean dish towel hung beside the sink.
Even the deadbolt looked different.
“Marcus,” I said slowly, “what did you do?”
He glanced around.
“I fixed a few things.”
“A few?”
Liam squeezed past me.
His eyes widened.
“You fixed the door!”
Marcus smiled.
“It was mostly the hinges.”
I stepped inside.
My purse remained tightly against my side.
I checked the living room.
Television.
Couch.
Coffee table.
Nothing appeared missing.
My bedroom door was still locked.
I walked toward it.
Marcus didn't move.
I unlocked it.
Everything was exactly where I'd left it.
My documents were untouched.
My wallet was inside my purse.
Jewelry remained in the small dish on my dresser.
I returned to the kitchen.
“Why are you still here?”
Marcus lowered his eyes.
“I know what we agreed.”
“Then why didn't you leave?”
“I tried.”
That answer stopped me.
“You tried?”
“My leg isn't exactly cooperating.”
I looked at the brace.
He noticed.
“I didn't sleep through the whole morning.”
“What happened?”
“The pain got bad when I stood up.”
He leaned against the counter.
“I thought I'd wait until it eased.”
“And while you waited, you repaired my apartment?”
A reluctant smile appeared.
“I got bored.”
Liam was already examining the cabinet.
“You fixed this too?”
“Your mother said the landlord hadn't.”
“She said the door was broken.”
Marcus nodded.
“So I looked at it.”
I stared at him.
“Where did you get tools?”
He pointed toward the hallway closet.
“I found a small toolbox.”
I felt another wave of suspicion.
“You went through our things?”
“Only the closet.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
He straightened.
“No.”
His expression changed.
“I didn't go through your private things.”
I believed him.
I wasn't sure why.
Maybe because the bedroom was untouched.
Maybe because he looked genuinely uncomfortable.
Maybe because someone who intended to steal from us probably wouldn't have spent hours fixing a door that didn't belong to him.
Then Liam shouted from the kitchen.
“Mom!”
I hurried over.
He was pointing at the stove.
There was a pan on it.
“What's that?”
“Soup,” Marcus said.
“You cooked?”
Marcus nodded.
“You had vegetables that were going soft.”
I stared at him.
“You cooked my vegetables?”
“You were going to lose them.”
“I was going to make dinner.”
“Then you can eat dinner.”
Liam looked at me.
“Can we?”
I should have said no.
Instead, I found myself asking Marcus, “What's in it?”
“Potatoes. Carrots. Onion. Some chicken.”
He paused.
“And seasoning.”
“What seasoning?”
He smiled.
“The kind that makes potatoes taste less like potatoes.”
Liam laughed.
I didn't.
Not immediately.
I was still trying to understand the man in front of me.
Marcus hadn't touched my money.
He hadn't searched my room.
He hadn't taken anything.
Instead, he'd spent the day repairing things I had complained about for months.
That didn't make sense.
I set my purse down.
“Sit.”
He looked at me.
“What?”
“Sit down.”
He lowered himself onto a kitchen chair.
I remained standing.
“Tell me everything you did.”
Marcus glanced at Liam.
“Everything?”
“Yes.”
He sighed.
“I tightened the faucet.”
“You didn't replace it?”
“No. It didn't need replacing.”
“The cabinet?”
“Adjusted the hinges.”
“The door?”
“Realigned the strike plate. The frame is slightly shifted.”
“The table?”
“One leg was shorter.”
I looked at him.
“How do you know how to do all this?”
He rubbed his palms together.
“I used to work construction.”
That explained the hands.
The tiny scars.
The roughened fingertips.
The way he had inspected the door without touching it.
“What happened at work?”
His expression closed.
“Accident.”
“Was that why you're homeless?”
He looked toward the window.
“Partly.”
I waited.
He didn't continue.
Liam broke the silence.
“Did you lose your job?”
Marcus nodded.
“Eventually.”
“Because of your leg?”
“Because I couldn't do the work anymore.”
“Couldn't they give you another job?”
Marcus looked at him.
“Sometimes life doesn't move people to the job they can still do.”
Liam seemed to think about that.
Then he asked, “Do you have a house?”
Marcus smiled sadly.
“Not right now.”
I went to the refrigerator.
There was a note on the door.
I hadn't put it there.
It was written on the back of an old grocery receipt.
CHECK THE BURNER BEFORE YOU USE IT. IT WASN'T SHUTTING OFF COMPLETELY.
My fingers tightened around the paper.
I turned toward him.
“You found that?”
He nodded.
“Your front-left burner has a faulty valve.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you shouldn't leave the stove unattended.”
“How bad?”
“Bad enough that I'd replace it.”
I looked at the stove.
It had been acting strangely for weeks.
Sometimes I smelled gas when I cooked.
I'd assumed it was coming from another apartment.
Marcus watched my face.
“You smelled it before?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Maybe two months.”
His expression changed.
“Chloe.”
“What?”
“You should have told the landlord.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“No one came.”
He sat back.
For the first time, the casual tone disappeared.
“Don't use that burner.”
I nodded.
The apartment suddenly felt less safe than it had five minutes earlier.
Not because Marcus was there.
Because he wasn't the danger I'd been worrying about.
The things I'd been living with were.
He showed me the burner.
He didn't turn it on. He simply demonstrated how loose the control felt compared with the others.
Then he walked to the front door.
“There's another problem.”
“What?”
He crouched carefully, bracing one hand against the wall.
“The door frame isn't just shifted.”
He pointed.
“Someone forced this before.”
I stared.
“What?”
“See the split wood?”
I crouched beside him.
There was a narrow crack near the strike plate.
“I thought that was from age.”
“Maybe.”
He ran a finger near the damaged area without touching it.
“But this is impact damage.”
“When?”
“Can't tell.”
I felt cold despite the apartment being warm.
“Why would someone have forced our door?”
“I don't know.”
He stood slowly.
“But you should replace the strike plate with longer screws.”
I looked at him.
“You really are going to leave in the morning, aren't you?”
His eyes met mine.
“Yes.”
The answer was immediate.
Something about it made me feel strangely disappointed.
I hated that feeling.
We ate the soup at the little kitchen table.
Liam talked.
Marcus listened.
I watched them both.
There was something peaceful about the scene that I didn't trust.
After dinner, Marcus insisted on washing the dishes.
“You're a guest.”
“I've been here all day.”
“That's exactly why.”
He smiled.
“You've already given me a shower, food, and a couch.”
He looked at Liam.
“And apparently access to a very dangerous cereal.”
Liam laughed.
Then Marcus became serious.
“I'm grateful.”
I nodded.
The gratitude sounded genuine.
Later, Liam went to his room.
I sat alone in the living room.
Marcus remained on the couch.
“Where were you before Chicago?” I asked.
He looked at the floor.
“Indiana.”
“Family?”
“Not anymore.”
“Friends?”
“Some.”
“Why aren't you with them?”
His jaw tightened.
“Sometimes people get tired of helping.”
I didn't ask another question.
There are answers people deserve to give only when they are ready.
I went to bed.
Before closing my bedroom door, I looked at Marcus.
He was sitting quietly in the dark living room.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Chloe.”
I shut the door.
But I didn't lock it.
I wasn't sure why.
Maybe because he had spent the day repairing things instead of taking them.
Maybe because something in his quietness had made me reconsider the stranger I'd met outside the grocery store.
Or maybe because I was beginning to realize that the most dangerous thing about my apartment wasn't the man sleeping on my couch.
It was everything I had become accustomed to ignoring.
The next morning, Marcus was gone.
The couch was folded neatly.
The kitchen was clean.
On the table sat a small envelope.
Inside was a handwritten note.
I found the door wouldn't latch properly, so I fixed what I could. Don't use the left burner. Call the landlord again about the gas line. And thank you for letting me remember what a kitchen table feels like.
Underneath that, he'd written one more sentence.
If you ever need the door looked at again, ask for Marcus.
There was no phone number.
No address.
Nothing that would let me find him.
For some reason, that bothered me more than it should have.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: The repairs made me grateful, then uneasy, when a hidden problem inside the apartment suggested Marcus had discovered something I had never noticed
A freezing night outside the grocery store led me to offer a stranger our couch, but one detail about him made me question the decision before we even reached home
Part 2 of 4
