PART 2
The locksmith froze with the drill still pressed to my lock.
Through the security camera, I saw his shoulders tense. He was young, maybe late twenties, with a gray work shirt and a tool bag open beside his knee. Whatever story Ronald had fed him, the man was suddenly beginning to understand he had stepped into something far more complicated than a routine lockout.
“My ex-wife isn’t thinking straight,” Ronald repeated, louder this time. “Open it.”
Priscilla crossed her arms, her cream coat glowing beneath the hallway lights like she had dressed for a courtroom drama instead of a break-in.
“She always does this,” she said sharply. “Overreacting. Making scenes. Punishing the family because she didn’t get her way.”
I stared at the camera feed, barefoot in my bedroom, my pulse pounding so violently I could feel it behind my eyes.
Five years of marriage had taught me many things about Ronald Cobb.
