WHEN JAMES STEPPED into Lily Ardmore’s house—Lily was his old Oxford friend, though ‘friend’ was always a bit of a reach—he didn’t expect to be greeted by the solid, uncompromising butt of a Remington 700 rifle slamming into the back of his head.
Chicago had never exactly rolled out the red carpet for him. The suburbs, even less so.
As the floor rushed up to meet him, James found himself thinking about bread.
Which was odd. Because just moments earlier he’d been thinking about vigilance, about trespassing laws, and about how his hand had instinctively drifted toward the grip of his pistol when he saw Lily’s front door hanging open—slightly ajar, like the mouth of a terrible liar. But then something heavy and definite—possibly Fate itself, though more likely the rifle—had collided with his skull. And now... now he was thinking about bread.
Soft French baguettes, the kind he once shared with a Strasbourg police inspector after a disastrously failed operation. How he really should’ve eaten something before dropping by Lily’s place.
And how his skull might now feature an interesting new dent.
It took him a moment to resurface.
When his vision finally cleared, the first thing he saw was Lily’s face—pale, slightly pinched, wearing the exact expression of someone who had just broken something expensive and wasn’t sure if the store would take returns.
She was still holding the rifle. It looked like someone had replaced her morning coffee with a deadly weapon at the last minute, and she’d simply decided to roll with it.
‘James?’ she said, as if she wasn’t entirely convinced it was him.
He sighed and tried to sit up. The world objected. Loudly.
The world often objected to James. But today it seemed especially offended.
‘Sorry,’ he managed.
Lily blinked. ‘What?’
‘Well, you’re clearly... startled. And here I am, armed. I didn’t knock. I probably breached some serious personal boundaries. Invaded your... comfort zone, or whatever.’
Lily slowly lowered the rifle, staring at him as if she’d just discovered something questionable in his moral architecture.
‘You’re apologising?’ she asked.
‘Well... yeah.’ She stood there a second longer, then dropped into the nearest chair with the grace of someone who hadn’t slept properly in a week, tossing the rifle aside like a toy that had stopped being fun.
‘Alright,’ she said. ‘Then I’m sorry too.’
‘For what?’
‘For potentially giving you... I don’t know, a mild traumatic brain injury.’
James gave a small, grateful nod.
‘I appreciate that.’
For a moment, the room held a tense silence—filled only by the low hum of the fridge, the muffled voices of neighbours through the walls, and a soft static in James’ head that could’ve been either the sound of his neurons firing or a sign of some serious damage.
‘Got any ice?’ he asked finally.
Lily sighed, stood up, vanished into the kitchen, and returned a minute later holding a bag of frozen peas.
‘Here.’
He took the bag, looked at it, then at her.
‘Peas? Seriously?’
‘It’s either that or the butt of a gun. Again.’
He decided the peas were probably the better option.
Carefully pressing them against the back of his head, he finally let himself glance around. Lily’s house was... strange. But not in the way criminals’ places are—no signs of struggle, no bloodstains, no missing owners. No, this was something else entirely. Books were open, but not as if someone had been reading—more like they’d been frantically shaken out, looking for something. Wine glasses sat on the table, half-full, as if someone had walked away mid-sip. In the corner, a large suitcase—half-packed, not zipped. It all looked like a stage set, left behind during intermission. Like in ‘Out 1’, James thought.
‘You going somewhere?’ he asked.
Lily turned to the suitcase as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Maybe.’
There was something off about that, maybe. Something uneasy. He set the peas down on the table.
‘Lily. What’s going on?’
She was quiet for a second, then ran a hand down her face, slow and tired.
‘Let’s just say... I also thought someone had broken into my place.’
James straightened, slowly.
‘You saw someone?’
‘No. But the door—it was definitely shut before. And when I came downstairs... it was open.’
He looked at her. Then at the heavy oak door. It looked perfectly calm. Like it had no idea what all the fuss was about.
He reached for his gun again.
‘Well,’ he said, standing up. ‘Let’s find out which one of us was right.’
Lily looked at him, sighed, picked up her rifle without much enthusiasm.
‘Of course. An investigation. Love those.’
And with that, they moved to sweep the house, leaving behind the abandoned bag of peas—robbed of its noble medical destiny. James led the way, gripping the pistol like a man with training and a license to kill (in very specific legal contexts), feeling personally offended that he was the one who’d gotten smacked in the head. Lily trailed behind, holding the rifle like a teenager sick of carrying her backpack—dangling it off one shoulder, ready to drop it at any second and say, ‘screw this thing.’
‘You have an actual plan?’ she asked lazily.
‘Yes,’ James said. ‘Walk around. Look at things. Ideally, don’t die.’
‘Brilliant. You must’ve been a chess grandmaster in a past life.’
They crossed the living room. Nothing. Moved into the kitchen. Still nothing—except a plate with the dried remains of toast, doomed from the moment it was born. James thought, this is what the end of civilization looks like. A forgotten breakfast. Cold tea in a chipped mug. A half-read book on the couch. We always think we’ll come back—take another sip, another bite, finish the chapter. And then we don’t. Pathetic.
‘See anyone?’ Lily asked in a fake-cheery tone.
‘Yeah,’ James turned to her, frowning. ‘I see a suspicious woman with a rifle who might just be distracting me while covering up her own crimes. I didn’t come here for no reason. Probably.’
Lily rolled her eyes.
‘Oh right. I’m the infamous serial killer who leaves the front door open, then sits on the couch waiting for some cop to drop by and check on me.’
‘First of all, I’m not a cop. And second, honestly? That would be a pretty smart strategy. No one expects a killer with that little motivation to cover their tracks.’
She gave him a long, unreadable look, then turned silently and started up the stairs. James followed.
‘So,’ he said, ‘if you didn’t leave the door open… who did?’
‘No idea.’
‘Maybe someone wanted you to think you did?’
‘Well, that’s a much more flattering theory than “I’m slowly becoming absent-minded and clumsy.”‘
‘True. Realising it’s just the early signs of aging? Terrifying.’
She shot him a look so sharp that, had looks been lethal, not only would he have dropped dead, but every record of his existence would’ve vanished from the FBI archives.
The second floor was just as empty as Wall Street’s moral compass. They checked the bedroom, peeked into the bathroom (no blood, no signs of a Hitchcockian tableau. ‘Pity,’ thought James. ‘I’ve always liked Hitchcock’), scanned the study, where the books sat so neatly aligned it seemed more the work of a divine geometer than a human hand.
‘No one here,’ James concluded as they returned to the hallway.
They went back downstairs. Lily glanced at him, then at the suitcase in the living room, then at the door.
‘So… what the hell was that?’ she asked.
James mirrored her glance—suitcase, door—and slowly holstered his gun, rubbing the back of his neck. The idea that they had just stepped into some unsolvable supernatural riddle didn’t sit well with him. He liked his mysteries with logic, preferably something he could file in a report—not something that required holy water and a séance.
‘Maybe…’ he began, dragging the word out, ‘the door just didn’t catch properly?’ Lily looked at him like he’d grown a second head.
‘You’re telling me I smashed you in the face with a rifle, we searched the whole damn house like a pair of morons—because the door didn’t shut all the way?’
James nodded, slowly.
With a tired exhale, Lily collapsed back onto the couch and, for good measure, flung a pillow at the wall. James watched the pillow slide down, then finally sat across from her.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘at least now I know your reflexes are excellent.’
‘Yeah, well. So’s your skull.’
‘Thanks. I’ve been working on it my whole life.’
She shot him a look full of equal parts resentment and resignation, then closed her eyes. ‘Maybe I’m just losing my mind,’ she offered.
‘Could be.’
She nodded, as if his agreement settled the matter.
‘Tea?’
‘You got any whiskey?’
Lily nodded and headed for the kitchen, leaving him alone in the living room. James glanced around again. Nothing had changed. The door—still ajar. Books—still scattered. Suitcase—half-packed. He shook his head, gave a quiet laugh, and followed her.
On the dark countertop, a glass of amber liquid was already waiting. The first sip burned pleasantly on its way down. Lily was turning her own glass in her hands, watching it catch the sunlight from the window.
‘Jay,’ she began, ‘tell me—do you always show up in people’s lives this inconveniently?’
‘Actually, yeah. It’s kind of my personal brand. Remember the first time we met? You were heading to the police station to get Annie, and I tagged along ’cause Pete was with her. We ended up missing the last train, and they had to wait till morning...’
‘Yeah, hard to forget that one. You know, if someone had told me back in freshman year that eight years later you’d be showing up at my place unannounced, and I’d be greeting you with a rifle to the head... I’d probably have hit them with a rifle first.’
‘Sounds like you.’
‘So tell me, at what exact point in your brilliant career did you decide that today was the perfect day for a visit?’
He shrugged lightly.
‘Just... intuition.’
‘Right. Intuition.’
She leaned forward, fingers interlaced.
‘Be honest—did you just come to check if I’m still alive?’
James squinted a little.
‘And what if I did? It’s not every day I find myself in Chicago. I’m based in L.A., you know.’ She tilted her head, thinking.
‘I guess that’s kind of sweet. In a pathological way.’
‘I am sweet,’ he replied, lowering his gaze with mock modesty.
‘Alright, then why are you in Chicago? Finally decided to change the scenery?’
‘Don’t dodge the question. I’m still waiting to hear why you were planning to leave without telling anyone.’
Lily hesitated.
‘Personal reasons,’ she said evasively.
‘Of course,’ James drawled. ‘Personal reasons.’
‘So why are you in Chicago?’
‘Personal reasons,’ he mimicked, then relented with a small sigh. ‘Work, actually.’
‘I see. Hopefully not because of me,’ she joked, but was met with a rather sharp look from him.
‘I hope so too.’
Lily rolled her eyes.
‘You’re being dramatic.’
‘And you’re lying.’
She took another sip of whiskey and set the glass down with a quiet clink.
‘That’s not your business anymore.’
‘It wouldn’t be, if you hadn’t left the door unlocked.’
‘I didn’t.’
James paused, then nodded slowly.
‘Then someone else was here before me.’
The silence in the room turned heavy, almost physical.
Lily opened her mouth to say something, but changed her mind. She didn’t want to admit that her own house had stopped feeling safe.
James exhaled, leaning against the counter.
‘Alright then. Tell me, Lily,’ he leaned forward, voice lower now, ‘who did you piss off recently?’
She gave a little laugh, but her eyes stayed alert.
‘You watch too many movies.’
‘And you don’t think enough about the fact that coincidences aren’t usually this well-organised.’
Lily wanted to throw out another quip, but her fingers tightened around the glass without her realising.
She had pissed someone off.
She’d just been hoping they hadn’t made it to her doorstep yet.
Then a message tone cut through the silence. She glanced at her phone and frowned.
‘Something wrong?’ he asked.
She didn’t answer right away. Then, slowly, she looked up.
‘It’s a message from you.’
‘What?’
He pulled out his phone, opened the thread—and there it was. The exact same message. Are you here? They looked at each other at the same time.
‘James,’ Lily said slowly, ‘are you sure you were alone when you got here?’
He opened his mouth, but then he remembered the toast in the kitchen, the open books, and the unfinished wine.
And suddenly it seemed to him that the back of his head had met something heavy again. Only this time it wasn’t a rifle, but a realisation. He opened his eyes. Lily Ardmore’s puzzled face was in front of him again. He found himself thinking about bread.
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