Guests With Bolt Cutters

Robert watched through the kitchen blinds as Diane Foster adjusted her grip on twenty-four-inch red bolt cutters. Behind her stood two others: her brother Calvin, carrying a vinyl cooler, and Tessa Monroe, holding an oversized beach bag. Neither looked rushed. They stood on the walkway like guests arriving for a scheduled barbecue.

Diane seated the jaws over the brass shackle of the Master Lock. She leaned her weight into the red handles. Two sharp clacks split the afternoon, and the sheared metal dropped into the mulch.

She kicked the gate swing open and walked onto the limestone coping without looking down.

“Put the drinks by the umbrella,” Diane said, her voice carrying through the glass patio door. “The circulating pump is running. Water should be ninety degrees.”

Calvin dropped the cooler near the loungers. Tessa kicked off her sandals and left them near the drain.

Robert did not move from the kitchen threshold. In the hallway behind him, Owen stood motionless, staring at the screen door.

Diane walked straight to the cedar deck box against the wall. She flipped the brass clasp and lifted the lid. From the top shelf, she pulled out two folded white terrycloth towels—the thick cotton Sarah had bought during chemotherapy, embroidered with small green initials along the hem.

Diane shook one open, snapping the fabric in the dry heat, and draped it loose around her neck.

She stepped down the shallow fiberglass steps into the turquoise water. Calvin jumped in from the deep end with a heavy splash that soaked the patio glass. Tessa slid in behind him, laughing as she floated on her back under the midday glare.

Diane waded toward the sliding door. The water reached her chest, pushing dark ripples against her linen swimsuit. She stopped where the depth leveled out, directly opposite the double-pane glass where Robert stood.

Her oversized sunglasses rested on top of her dyed hair. She smiled, slow and level, looking past the glare of the glass straight into Robert’s eyes.

She stepped onto the top riser, lifted her right arm from the water, and slapped her wet palm flat against the center of the sliding pane.

Water sheeted down the exterior glass, leaving a dripping handprint between them. Diane leaned close, tapped the glass with one manicured fingernail, and silently mouthed three words.

Stop me now.

Owen lunged for the sliding glass door.

Robert grabbed his son’s shoulder, digging his fingers into the blue jersey fabric. “No,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Sit down.”

“She’s wearing Mom’s towel,” Owen whispered, his voice cracking. “Dad, look at her.”

Robert pulled Owen back toward the granite kitchen island and forced him down onto a stool. He kept one hand firmly on the boy’s shoulder.