You’ve been in the cul-de-sac for three weeks.

Long enough to realize the neighborhood is unnaturally quiet at night. No stray dogs. No raccoons tipping bins. No wandering teenagers.

Long enough to notice Mara Whitlock watches from her kitchen window whenever you bring in groceries.

Tonight, you’re making dinner when your back door unlocks with a soft click.

You didn’t leave it unlocked.

Mara steps inside carrying an empty wicker basket.

“I do hope you don’t mind,” she says pleasantly. “Store-bought eggs are so inconsistent. Thin shells. Poor yield.”

Her gaze drifts downward, assessing.

“You, on the other hand,” she continues softly, “have excellent structure.”

The basket settles on your counter.

“I’ll only need a few.”