Chapter 1 - The Doorbell Camera at Paradise
The turquoise water of the resort pool in Nassau looked like polished glass, sparkling under a brilliant Caribbean sun. A warm, salty breeze rustled the palm fronds overhead. For the first time in thirty-one years, my shoulders were dropped completely away from my ears. I had an iced coffee sweating on the side table, my sunglasses resting on the bridge of my nose, and no deadlines looming over my head. My laptop was locked safely inside the room's safe, powered down.
Then, the small rectangular device beside my drink vibrated against the dark wicker table.
A single buzz. Then another.
I picked it up, expecting an automated alert from an airline or maybe a promotional email. Instead, a black-and-amber banner stretched across the top of the display:
SMARTBELL ALERT: MOTION DETECTED AT FRONT DOOR (DENVER APARTMENT)
A cold, familiar knot twisted deep in my gut. I tapped the banner, the live video feed buffering for two agonizing seconds before popping into high-definition clarity.
There they were.
Standing in the well-lit, carpeted hallway of my fourth-floor Denver apartment building was an entire expedition. My mother, Helen, stood directly in front of the lens, wearing her quilted olive-green winter coat, her leather handbag tucked aggressively under her arm. Behind her stood my brother, Jason, looking haggard in an oversized down jacket, clutching two massive hard-shell suitcases. His wife, Stephanie, looked nearly hollowed out with exhaustion, balancing nine-month-old Sky on one hip while trying to stop four-year-old Oliver from kicking the baseboard. Emma, six years old, sat defeatedly on top of a collapsed Pack ’n Play portable crib, clutching a battered stuffed rabbit. Piled around their feet were three duffel bags, two plastic grocery sacks stuffed with loose snacks, and several brightly wrapped Christmas presents.
They hadn't listened. Not a single syllable.
I watched on the tiny screen as my mother reached out and knocked sharply on the wood. Rap, rap, rap.
She waited three seconds, tapped her foot, and knocked again—harder this time. When no footsteps sounded from inside, she let out an irritated breath that fogged slightly in the cool indoor hallway air. She reached into her leather bag, her fingers fishing around until they produced a familiar brass key on a miniature silver carabiner.
The emergency key.
The key given to her strictly for plumbing catastrophes or checking smoke detectors while I traveled.
She jammed the key into the deadbolt with the confidence of someone walking into her own living room. She twisted it to the right.
It didn't turn.
She frowned, pulled it back a fraction of an inch, wiggled it, and forced it again. The cylinder remained entirely rigid. The brass key scraped harmlessly against new, heavy-duty tumblers.
Her face flushed an angry, mottled pink. She pulled the key out, stared at the teeth as if the metal had betrayed her, and shoved it back in. She rattled the heavy brass knob with both hands.
My phone screen suddenly lit up with an incoming call overlay: MOM.
I swiped it away into voicemail without hesitating.
Two seconds later: JASON.
I declined that one, too.
On the live video feed, Helen turned back toward Jason, her mouth moving rapidly, her hands gesturing toward the lock. Jason set down the two heavy suitcases with a thud that I could almost feel through the glass screen, running a hand over his tired face. Then, Helen pivoted back toward my door, balled her hand into a fist, and began pounding with full force.
“RILEY!” her voice boomed, muffled through the microphone. “Riley, open this door right now! Stop playing games!”
I sat upright on my lounge chair by the Caribbean pool, took a steadying breath, and tapped the green microphone icon on my screen.
“Hi, Mom,” I said.
My voice piped out of the small speaker embedded beside the camera lens.
In Denver, thousands of miles away, the entire hallway froze.
Helen stopped mid-strike, her knuckles suspended in the air. Jason’s head snapped up. Even little Oliver paused his kicking and looked toward the tiny black lens beside the doorframe.
Helen leaned in close, her eyes glaring directly into the camera. “Riley? Open the door! We’ve been standing out here in the hall for ten minutes! Jason needs to get to the highway before the mountain pass closes!”
“I can't open the door, Mom,” I said, keeping my tone perfectly conversational.
“What do you mean you can’t open the door? Stop being ridiculous and unlock it!”
“I’m in Nassau,” I said.
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the hallway feed.
“Nassau?” Helen repeated, her eyebrows knitting together in furious disbelief.
“The Bahamas,” I clarified. “The island.”
“I know where Nassau is!” she snapped, her voice rising an octave.
“Good. Then we’re all caught up.”
Jason stepped forward, pushing into the frame behind our mother, his face pale and bewildered. “Riley, are you serious? You actually left town? You’re not in Colorado?”
“I told you I wouldn't be home, Jason. I sent you a text message three weeks ago. You replied with a thumbs-up.”
“I thought you meant you were going to a coffee shop or working from a library so you wouldn't have to deal with the drop-off!” he yelled, exasperation bleeding into every syllable. “We booked the cabin in Breckenridge! It’s non-refundable!”
Helen grabbed the door handle again, trying to rattle it, her gaze dropping to the shiny new brushed-nickel lock set. The truth finally pierced her stubbornness.
“You changed the locks?” she whispered, looking back at the camera, her expression shifting from impatience to outright shock. “You changed your locks because of me?”
May you like
I looked past my phone screen at the endless blue horizon of the ocean, the midday sun warming my bare arms.
“No, Mom,” I said softly, but loud enough for every single one of them to hear. “I changed them because you kept treating my no like it was something you could unlock.”
