And heard the water.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.
The front hall looked strange. Empty. Brian had taken the bench and the coat rack and the little table where we used to drop our keys. There were pale rectangles on the wall where pictures had hung. I’d expected that. I’d prepared myself for that.
What I hadn’t prepared for was the smell. Damp. Like a basement after a storm.
I walked into the living room.
There was a hole punched clean through the drywall beside the fireplace.
It was about the size of a fist. Maybe a little bigger. The edges were jagged and torn, and the paper backing hung down in little flaps. White plaster dust covered the floor beneath it in a fan shape, like someone had sprinkled flour.
I stood there staring at it.
I tried to convince myself that something heavy had fallen. A shelf. A picture frame. Something the movers dropped. Movers drop things all the time.
Then I saw another hole, near the hallway.
Same size. Same jagged edges. About shoulder height.
Shoulder height on Brian. Brian is six feet tall.
I walked down the hallway with my heart starting to pound. I pushed open the door to the guest bedroom, the room we’d painted pale green four years ago when we were trying for a baby that never came.
There was a third hole in the wall beside the window.
My stomach tightened.
The sound of the water suddenly seemed louder. I’d been hearing it the whole time, like background music, but now it filled my whole head.
I hurried into the kitchen.
The faucet was running at full force. Hot water. Steam was curling up out of the sink, and the window above it had fogged over completely.
I shut it off. My hand slipped on the wet handle.
In the sudden quiet, I heard more water. Upstairs.
I ran.
The upstairs bathroom sink was running too. So was the bathtub, the drain wide open, water pounding down onto the porcelain. The mirror over the sink was completely fogged. The bathmat was soaked through.
I turned them both off.
Then I heard it again, down the hall. The second bathroom. The one off the master bedroom.
Another faucet, left wide open.
“What the hell?” I whispered.
I turned them off one after another, my hands shaking harder each time. By the last one, my fingers were trembling so badly that I had to use both hands on the knob.
Then I stood in the doorway of that bathroom and listened.
Nothing. The house was finally quiet.
I had no idea how long the faucets had been running. A day? Since yesterday morning when his deadline ran out? Longer? I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to think about it, because I knew the water bill could be catastrophic.
I leaned against the doorframe and closed my eyes.
Okay, I told myself. Okay. Holes in the walls. Faucets. It’s bad. But it’s fixable. Walls can be patched. Water bills can be paid. It’s just stuff. It’s just a house.
I took a deep breath.
Then I went back downstairs.
And that’s when I saw something glittering on the living room floor. 