The Caribbean in late December was everything the brochure had promised and nothing like New Jersey. I was sitting on the narrow balcony of my cabin on Deck 8, watching the water change color as the afternoon sun dropped lower in the sky, from bright turquoise near the surface to a deep ink blue further out where the shelf fell away and the ocean became serious about its depth. I had a glass of Chardonnay on the small table beside me, a novel open in my lap that I had not read a single page of, and absolutely nowhere to be.
My phone buzzed against the table. The notification read: Motion detected. Front door camera.
I set the novel aside and opened the app. The live feed loaded in four seconds. The image was grainy, the way outdoor cameras always are in fading afternoon light, but clear enough. I watched a black SUV pull into my driveway, followed closely by a second, then a third, then a minivan with a Florida license plate that had a small dent in the front bumper. Doors opened. People poured out the way people do when they have been sitting in vehicles for too long, stretching, reaching back for bags, saying things to each other that the camera’s microphone could not quite catch.
I counted as best I could through the grainy feed. Exactly as advertised. They came with luggage that had wheels and hard shells and monograms. They came with two large coolers that required two people each to carry. They came with a wooden crate of wine bottles packed in straw, which one of the men carried under one arm with the confidence of someone who considered himself a connoisseur. And they came with Morwenna.
I recognized her from the one photograph Corbin had shown me after the wedding. A tall woman with the kind of rigid posture that announces itself before the rest of the person arrives. She stepped out of the lead SUV in a faux fur coat the color of champagne and stood at the edge of my driveway, looking at my house and then at the neighboring houses and then back at my house, with the particular expression of a woman who had expected something slightly more impressive and was already composing her opinion of it.
Blythe came around from the passenger side, her sunglasses pushed up on her head despite the December cold. She was already moving toward the front door with the focused energy of someone who has planned this moment and intends to perform it well. I watched her reach into her coat pocket and pull out my brass spare key. She held it up briefly. Just briefly. And something in her posture in that moment, some small unconscious squaring of the shoulders, told me she had been looking forward to using it.
She slid it into the lock. The door swung open. She walked in first, leaving the front door open behind her.
The camera’s microphone caught everything. The hollow sound of her heels striking the bare hardwood floor before a single word was spoken. A clean, echoing knock that was nothing at all like the sound a furnished room makes.
She stopped walking. The feed showed the rest of the family pressing in behind her, bottlenecking at the doorway, luggage wheels catching on the threshold. Someone saying, “Blythe, why are you stopping?” Then Morwenna’s voice, clipped and carrying. “Blythe, where is the furniture?”
I took a sip of my Chardonnay.
Through the camera, I could see Blythe move in fast, purposeful steps, disappearing toward the hallway. She would be checking the bedrooms. I knew the route she was taking because I had walked it myself just two days ago in the opposite direction, saying goodbye to each empty room in my own quiet way. She came back into the camera’s frame less than ninety seconds later. And whatever composure she had carried up the front walk was no longer visible on her face.
Corbin stood in the center of the empty living room, turning slowly in a full circle. His arms at his sides. His mouth slightly open. He looked very young suddenly. He looked like the boy who used to stand in the middle of the backyard after a thunderstorm, looking at the damage the weather had left behind, not entirely sure what to do with the information.
Someone tried the thermostat. Someone walked to the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator. The camera didn’t reach that far, but I knew exactly what they found. Three cans of cat food lined up on the middle shelf with the labels facing out. I did not own a cat.
Someone else picked up their phone and held it up, searching for a signal. And I watched their expression shift when they found the Wi-Fi network.
My phone buzzed again. Incoming call. Blythe. I watched her on the camera, standing in the empty living room, phone pressed to her ear, her free hand moving through the air in short, tight gestures. I let it ring through to voicemail. Thirty seconds later, she called again. I put the phone face down on the table and looked out at the water.
When I looked back at the feed, Morwenna had moved to the center of the room and discovered the folding chair with its large cardboard box. She placed both hands on her hips, read the label, For Blythe and Corbin, Happy New Year, and her voice changed immediately, warming by several degrees.
“She left something,” Morwenna announced to the room with the authority of a woman reclaiming a situation. “Probably air mattresses or bedding. She would not just leave us with nothing.”
Blythe crossed the room in four strides, pulled her car key from her pocket, and dragged it across the packing tape.
Someone behind me on the deck laughed at something, and I realized I was smiling.
On the screen, Morwenna was already calling the others in from the doorway. They gathered around the chair in their winter coats, rolling suitcases parked haphazardly behind them, wine crate set on the bare floor, coolers still sitting on the front porch because there had been nowhere obvious to put them. One of those coolers held, by Blythe’s own prior announcement, over a thousand dollars of fresh seafood. Two whole lobsters. Two pounds of king crab legs. Chilean sea bass. And a quantity of jumbo shrimp she had described to Corbin as “the good kind.” Which was why, before she tore into the first layer of cardboard, one of the men suggested they move the coolers to the back porch and let the cold December air do what the refrigerator apparently was not going to.
“Smart,” Blythe said without looking up from the tape. “The cold will keep it fresh.”
I watched two of them drag the coolers around the side of the house toward the backyard, disappearing from the camera’s frame.
I picked up my novel. I turned to the first page. I did not read it. I was waiting for the next notification.
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
Sophia holds a degree in Journalism from the University of Toronto, where she developed her skills in news reporting, media ethics, and digital journalism. Her expertise lies in identifying key stories, crafting compelling narratives, and ensuring journalistic integrity in every piece she edits.
Known for her precision and dedication to the truth, Sophia thrives in the fast-paced world of news editing. At TheArchivists, she focuses on producing high-quality news content that keeps readers informed while maintaining a balanced and insightful perspective.
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