“Joe.” Love’s voice pulled him back. She was holding a glass of lemonade, her blonde hair catching the afternoon light. “You’re brooding again. We agreed. No more ghosts.”

The first sign of trouble came three days later. A woman named Natalie Engler appeared on their doorstep with a casserole. She was beautiful in a careless way—messy hair, bare feet, eyes that lingered on Joe a second too long. Her husband, Matthew, ran a biotech firm and never came to these little visits.

“I didn’t notice.”

Joe smiled. His jaw ached from the effort.

The next morning, Joe found a note tucked under his windshield wiper. Handwritten on pink stationery.

Inside, boxes still cluttered the living room. But Henry, their son, cooed in his bassinet, oblivious to the careful performance his parents were already rehearsing. Joe had read somewhere that psychopaths were born, not made. He wondered if Henry would inherit his mother’s temper or his father’s… proclivities.

“She’s pretty,” Love murmured.

He had no answer. Because she was right. Already, he’d catalogued Natalie’s habits—the way she jogged past their house at 6 a.m., the way she left her back door unlocked, the way her husband never looked at her. Already, the old machinery was turning.