Hells, Mara’s wards probably wouldn’t let her pass. She touched the fence latch, felt no electric tingle, heard no warning bell. Maybe the wards only went off if you opened the gate.

She pressed down on the latch, and stepped into Mara’s yard.

No lightning. No thunder. Not even a dog’s bark. Silence and wind. She walked up the yard. Front door locked. Stepping-stones circled around to the back, and she followed them. One stone shifted beneath her feet.

Orange trees grew in the backyard. Kai’d always been jealous of Mara’s trees; her own house’s last owners had no interest in horticulture, save for the psychotropic variety. She picked a low-hanging orange, thought about peeling it, decided not to, and continued to the rear porch. Through glass sliding doors Kai saw the kitchen, marble countertops and cabinets of pale imported wood. A percolator on the stove. Clean counters, dishes racked. She tried the door, out of curiosity.

It opened.

A chill ran up her spine and down her arms. Mara wouldn’t leave her door unlocked. Then again, anyone might leave her door unlocked. People ran out of the house, forgetful, stuffing a boxed lunch into a shoulder bag, spilling coffee on their hands.

Mara didn’t forget things, she rarely ran, and she was never late.

Kai stepped into the empty kitchen.

She didn’t see anything wrong or out of place. One dish in the sink. Crumbs. Dried purple smear of jam on a dull knife. Three tiny black flies stuck in the jam.

Kai didn’t care for Claude’s God Wars historicals, all bluff and thunder and improbable heroics, but she did attend the occasional mystery play, and she’d read a detective novel Gavin lent her once. The murder she liked, but the clues bothered her. A detective in a kitchen could tell how long the occupant was gone from the relative staleness of bread crumbs. Kai couldn’t. But Mara kept a neat house, and hired maids to keep it neater. Burned her garbage, even, ever since a bad breakup in which her ex had stalked her through her trash. Dirty dishes in the sink could be another sign she hadn’t come home the night before. Or that she came home so late she lacked the energy to wash her breakfast dishes before bed.

Through the kitchen door Kai saw, on the couchside table, a small spiral-bound calendar, the kind with a new cartoon for each month. Days X-ed off. She’d come this far already. Might as well check the calendar, then get out. Stuff the letter in the mailbox and leave.

She slipped off her shoes, set them on the tile floor, and padded across the carpet into the living room. Here too she saw no signs of life. The strange order of a maid-cleaned house, that was all. Pillows propped in plush chairs. Wood surfaces dusted, polished. Thick carpet.