Lance stood and shrugged his shoulders while shaking his head, and made a mental note to examine it in the morning. When he turned toward the stairs, the dark outline of the door stood there to meet him. It was the one place he had neglected to check in his search earlier.
With resolve, he stepped to the door and grasped the cold doorknob in his right hand. Without hesitation, he twisted the handle as hard as he could. The black iron not only refused to turn but it remained completely immotile, without the slightest hint of movement. Lance grunted, anger rising like a wave inside him, as he strained against the knob. The handle dug into the palm of his hand, chilling the bones beneath the meat and skin. It was like trying to flip a train off its tracks by wrenching at its hitch.
He let go and exhaled the breath he had been holding. His hand burned and he could see the white imprint of the knob in his skin. “Fuck you,” Lance said, and walked up the stairs to his bedroom.
As he lay there in the darkness, his thoughts swirling around him, he listened for sounds throughout the house. The eastern horizon had begun to brighten when he finally shut his eyes, and below him, the stain on the floor faded from sight with the dawning of the day.
A pounding threaded its way through Lance’s ears and prodded his sleeping brain. There was a pause of silence in which he began to drift off again, thinking that the sound had been part of the sleeping world, but it was short-lived as it repeated itself, making his eyelids flutter open. For a moment his sleep-addled mind mistook the pounding for footsteps and the memory of the night before returned to him. He lifted himself onto an elbow and looked around the room. The noise from below began again, and this time he recognized the sound of a fist connecting with the front door. The blows became harder and more drawn out, as if the person attached to the fist was becoming impatient.
“Coming!” Lance yelled, as he placed his feet on the cool floor and searched for the sweats he wore the night before.
After dressing and descending from the bedroom, he examined the general vicinity where the moonlit stain had been in the night. The oak planks were smooth and unblemished.
The knocking resumed again and he hurried to the front door, throwing it open to the sunlit yard and the old caretaker that stood on the stoop. At the sight of John standing there, the same anger that had risen during the early-morning hours lit inside him once again. Lance felt his jaw tighten and his brow draw down.
“Where’s the fire?” Lance said before he could stop himself. John looked at him, and one end of his mouth rankled up as though he had tasted something sour.
“Just checking to see if you still want me to take care of the grounds, or if you’ll be doing it yourself.”
“I don’t know, did you happen to loan out your keys to anyone recently?” Lance looked for some sign of surprise or panic on the old man’s face, but his searching went unrewarded.
“What are you talking about?”
“I had a visitor last night. Someone was in the house, and all the doors and windows were locked when I checked them. If you have a problem with me buying the property, Mr. Hanrahan, just tell me.” John’s eyes squinted at Lance beneath the brim of his dirty baseball hat, and for the first time Lance noticed the faint smell of liquor.
“My keys are right where they’re supposed to be and I’ve never let anyone else use them. I’m not here to argue. You want the grass cut or not?”
Lance weighed his options as he stared at the caretaker. For some reason he didn’t think the other man was lying, but he couldn’t be sure. He looked over John’s shoulder at the swaying grass and thought about his computer waiting in the alcove behind him.