Chapter 3: The First Cut

By Wednesday afternoon, the remaining cardboard moving boxes had been broken down, flattened, and stacked neatly inside the garage. The colonial house on the bend looked entirely unblemished from the outside, seamlessly mirroring the pristine, undisturbed rhythm of the rest of the cul-de-sac. Inside, however, Heaven had intentionally left a single room in disarray: the formal dining room, positioned just off the front entryway where anyone standing at the screen door would have a clear, unobstructed line of sight.

Heaven spent twenty minutes choosing her outfit for the afternoon. It had to look entirely accidental, a masterclass in suburban casual that whispered rather than screamed. She settled on a pair of vintage, high-waisted denim shorts that hugged the curve of her hips and a lightweight, oversized white linen button-down shirt. She left the top three buttons entirely undone, letting the fabric drape loosely over one shoulder to expose a smooth expanse of skin and the delicate black lace strap of her bra. Her dark hair was tossed up in a messy, effortless claw clip, leaving the long, pale line of her neck completely bare.

Marcus had already gone back to work, his logistics calls keeping him locked away in his upstairs office, but they had synchronized their schedules perfectly. He knew exactly what she was doing downstairs.

At exactly two fifteen, Heaven stepped out onto the front porch, a heavy, solid oak bookshelf shelf cradled awkwardly in her arms. She made sure to struggle just enough with the weight, her breath catching audibly as she navigated the porch steps. Right on cue, the heavy rumble of a diesel engine echoed down the lane. It was a dark green crossover SUV, and sitting behind the wheel was Tom Grayson, returning home from his half-day schedule at the regional high school.

Heaven paused on the middle step, adjusting her grip on the wood so that her chest pressed firmly against it, accentuating her cleavage through the open linen shirt. She looked up, wiping a stray lock of hair from her forehead, and offered a small, seemingly frustrated smile as Tom’s car slowed down near the curve.

Tom didn’t just drive past. He stopped the car right at the edge of their asphalt driveway, idling the engine. He rolled down his window, leaning his tanned elbow against the door. “Need a hand with that, Heaven?” he called out, his voice carrying that familiar, authoritative tone of a teacher used to directing a room.

“Oh, thank you, Tom, but I shouldn’t bother you,” Heaven called back, her voice pitched soft, carrying a hint of breathless exhaustion. “Marcus is stuck on a conference call upstairs, and I’m just trying to get this final unit assembled before tonight. It’s a bit heavier than it looks.”