Gripping the handle, I pulled the window closed and searched around the sill and floor. Nothing was out of place. Maintenance rarely came through, and when they did, they left a note on my front door. They could’ve forgotten.

My purse still on my shoulder and keys in hand, I walked slowly into my bedroom, where I discovered my neatly made bed. A chill inched up my spine. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d made my bed. It’d never seemed practical, considering it would be undone by nighttime. I hadn’t made it this morning.

Making the bed would have been a Brit move. And maybe she left the window open to let in fresh air. I could imagine her just popping by, doing her mommy thing, and then going on her merry way.

I’d tolerated my sister’s comings and goings since the accident. I’d needed the help for the first few weeks. And it had been moderately okay, but now I didn’t need her. And she was crossing a line.

When I was fourteen, Brit often came in Clare’s and my room to search drawers, under beds, and inside closets. She’d said it was what Mom would’ve done. She was just looking out for us and making sure we didn’t get in real trouble. I’d resented it then, and we’d had terrible fights that often led to another bout of whatever plagued me when I was stressed. The night Clare died we’d fought over her snooping.

I fished my phone from my pocket, dialing Brit’s number.

The phone rang three times and went to voice mail. As I readied to quiz Brit, I thought questions about trespassing (because that was what it was) would trigger unwelcome attention. She’d get defensive. Act hurt. And I wasn’t up for that kind of drama tonight.

As I stared at the made bed, I said, “It’s me. Call me when you can.”

I slid the phone in my pocket and walked to the bed.

Carefully, I skimmed my fingers over the smooth comforter. The nerves in my back tightened. I’d once woken on a neatly made bed in a dorm room at Brit’s college. I’d risen, looked back at the bed. My mind muddled by drink, I didn’t remember how I’d gotten there, or what had happened the prior night. I’d felt dirty. Imagined hands roaming my body.

I now curled my fingers into a fist and stepped back from my bed. My skin tingled, and I turned as if I expected someone to be standing behind me.

I was alone, of course. Still . . .