Caroline was my friend. Or so I thought. We drank Pinot Grigio on her porch on Fridays. I watered her hydrangeas when she and her husband, Lincoln, went on vacation. I knew her children’s allergies. Seeing her car wasn’t inherently wrong, but she usually parked in front of her own house. Why was she blocking my garage?

I unlocked the front door, expecting noise. Jackson always blasted classic rock when he was crunching numbers. If Caroline was over, I expected the high-pitched peals of her laughter.

Instead, the house was a tomb.

“Jackson?” I called out, my voice bouncing off the hardwood floors of the hallway.

Silence.

The breakfast dishes were still in the sink, crusted with egg, exactly as I had left them. Caroline’s shoes weren’t by the door, which was odd; she was fastidious about not tracking dirt inside. I walked toward the kitchen, thinking they might be on the back patio, but the glass doors were locked tight.

Then, I heard it. A sound that shouldn’t have been terrifying, but in that stillness, it sounded like a scream.

Running water.