He looked back at the truck again, idling, steam rising from the tailpipe, creating curtains for that locked back door.

Just leave it here, he thought.

Then he thought of Jerry and how he’d explain this.

Never mind the money, Jerry. I decided not to follow those directions after all. Yeah. The box spoke to me, Jerry.

It did say something. Didn’t it? And what would work protocol have to say about that?

Through the glass he saw no sign of life.

IF RECIPIENT IS NOT HOME (OR DOES NOT ANSWER THE DOOR) BETWEEN 12 AND 12:30 OR IF DRIVER MISSES THIS WINDOW OF TIME, DESTROY CONTENTS OF BOX.

Tom could almost still hear the doorbell echoing through the house. Wind chimes played in a cave. Could Dean Crawford hear it, too? Was he bundled up somewhere inside?

He wanted it destroyed the whole time.

Tom tried to shake this idea as quickly as it came.

But it was hard. The way truth is hard to deny, no matter what someone wants to believe.

2

He tried the door handle.

And the door opened.

“Mr. Crawford?”

He glanced over his shoulder, the truck looking like a beast to him. Blocking the way to the street. Telling him to enter the house. Nowhere else to go.

“Delivery, Mr. Crawford!”

He pushed the door open farther. He reached inside, searching for a foyer light.

“Mr. Crawford?”

His voice echoed like the bell had moments before. He finally took a step and when his boot touched the foyer floor it struck Tom that he was officially breaking into a client’s home.

It was cold inside. It felt like nobody was home.

Tom took the flashlight from his coat pocket, flipped it on, and brought merciful light to the house.

He walked in, deeper, until the foyer became a large carpeted room with couches and a television as big as Tom’s truck.

There was no one in the room and it really felt like there was no one in the room. As if no one had been home for weeks.

Through the living room, Tom came to the kitchen. Then to a large room with a fireplace and what looked like rugs made from actual animal hides.

“Crawford?” he called.

He came to a closed dark door. Even under his meager beam he could tell the wood was strong. The knob turned easily and he pushed it open slowly, shining the light inside. It was a study or a library. The kind of room Tom had never had in a house of his own. His beam traced a tall bookshelf that covered the wall to his left, then settled on a table edge, an idle lamp, a paperweight, and—

“What the fuck are you doing?”

And the man sitting at that desk, too.

Tom leapt back.

“Mr. Crawford?”

The man had a shotgun pointed at Tom’s chest.

“Did you destroy the contents of the box?”