I watched the live feed with my stomach in knots. Roger was crouched at our front door, and Sandra stood behind him holding something small and dark. Then I saw what he was doing. He was working at the lock, calmly, unhurried, the way a person does something they have done many times before. “Marcus,” I said, holding up the phone. He leaned in, and we both watched Roger straighten, push the door open, and step inside our locked house, Sandra following behind him, as easily as if they owned it. The door had not been forced. He had a key. A key we had never given anyone.

My hands were shaking as I tapped the two-way audio button. “Roger,” I said into the phone, my voice coming out of the camera’s speaker. On screen, both of them froze in our doorway. Sandra’s head snapped toward the camera. Roger recovered fast, smiling up at the lens with the same friendly warmth that had disarmed us for six months. “Oh, hi there!” he called cheerfully. “We saw a light flickering and got worried. Just checking on the place for you.” But I had watched him pick the lock. And I finally understood the warning scratched into that closet wall. I hung up and called the police.