She was about to turn back when she heard it again, another growl. It came, definitively, from the house across the street. How strange, she thought. Perhaps the single woman who lived in the house watched a loud movie. But not likely. She couldn’t shake the weirdness as she showered, as she dressed in her dark blue Ralph Lauren suit (a suit she hadn’t worn since retirement). And after she’d placed seltzer in an ice bucket to chill, after she’d laid out chips and cornichons beside her homemade paté, she crossed the street.

She had meant only to knock. But Carmen startled at drops of what looked like blood, a trail from the center of the driveway to the door, a sprinkling of dark crimson she’d missed from the safety of her own driveway. She was so taken aback she crouched to the ground and looked closer, as if blood could speak its truth if only she leaned into it. But she gathered herself and stood, forced her wild thoughts to heel. This wasn’t a movie. She wasn’t a heroic amateur detective, much as she loved those shows.

Every window was curtained, and there were no cars in the driveway. She braced herself and knocked but nobody opened the door. She knew little about the occupant other than she was a single woman like herself, a woman with a grown child just like her, though this child was far more functional than Jeanette: a man who sometimes stopped by with kids and a wife in tow. The woman was like Carmen but far less put-together. And she talked too much. The woman let her gray roots sprawl, she wore pilled knit shirts and was often clacking about her garden in plastic flip-flops, waving to Carmen with garden shears in her hand, swiping her forehead with a rag. She’d talk about her son, about how her daughter-in-law was lazy and clearly taking advantage of him, about how menopause was killing her for God’s sake. It was like the woman had no filter, no sense that some thoughts belonged in the hidden parts of herself.

Carmen was about to turn back when she thought she heard footsteps. But no lights came on. The door remained shut. She put her ear to the wood and heard the slow hum of an empty house and then, almost imperceptibly, a long sigh, like a dog curling into sleep. No, not a dog. The footsteps rang heavy, the breathing not a pant but an audible purring. Like Linda’s purrs but through a stethoscope, magnified, huge. For a moment, she had the irrational idea that a house might have a living, breathing soul, a heart trapped among shine-polished appliances and old inherited furniture, bursting to be known. Perhaps bleeding into the street. She stumbled back from the door. Then crept forward again, put her ear to it again. Yes, purring.