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‘Gladys, are you home? I got your message…’

Reilly peered in the window of the side door, but couldn’t see any sign of activity from inside, though his wife’s Grand Cherokee was still in the garage. He reached for his keychain out of habit, and had sorted through half a dozen keys before he mentally kicked himself.

‘Ass. It’s not your house anymore, remember? You just pay the fucking mortgage.’ He shook his head at his own stupidity before his gaze rested on the huge flowerpot that contained the ficus tree he and Gladys had purchased five years earlier, for their new house. With a lopsided grin, he took the fake rock out of the dirt, opened it for the key, and let himself in.

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