THE BODY IN HIS HOUSE

The first thing I noticed about the dead man was that he was wearing my watch. I stopped halfway up the stairs. For three seconds, I simply stared at the body lying at the end of the hallway. Then I looked down at my own wrist. The watch was there. Black leather strap. Silver case. Small scratch across the glass near the eleven. My breathing changed. I looked back at the man. Same watch. Same scratch. That was impossible. I had locked my front door when I left. I remembered doing it. I always remembered. The house was supposed to be empty. I had been away for four days on a business trip, and the first thing I wanted when I returned was silence. No assistants. No security staff. No meetings. Just my house, a shower, and a few hours without anyone asking me for anything. Instead, there was a dead man upstairs. I didn't move. The hallway was dark except for the weak yellow light coming from the bedroom at the far end. Rain tapped against the windows, soft enough to sound almost harmless. Almost. I forced myself to look at the body again. Male. Maybe in his thirties. Dark hair. Black jacket. One arm lay beneath him, the other stretched awkwardly across the floor. There was blood beneath his head. Not much. That somehow made it worse. My eyes moved slowly around the hallway. Nothing was overturned. No broken furniture. No shattered window. No signs of a struggle. Whoever had done this hadn't needed to fight him. Or the man had known whoever killed him. I took one step backward. The floor creaked. The body didn't move. I swallowed. "Hello?" The word left my mouth before I could stop it. Silence. I immediately hated myself for saying it. A dead man couldn't answer. And if whoever had killed him was still in the house, announcing my presence was the stupidest thing I could have done. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over the emergency number. Then I stopped. I looked toward the stairs. Nothing. The house was silent. Too silent. I started moving backward. One step. Then another. I didn't take my eyes off the hallway. When I reached the staircase, I turned and went down quickly. I locked the door behind me. Not because I thought a lock could stop someone who had already gotten inside. It couldn't. But my hands needed something to do. I called the police. The operator asked me to confirm my address. I did. "Are you currently inside the property?" "Yes." "Are you in immediate danger?" I looked toward the ceiling. "No." I wasn't sure that was true. "Stay somewhere secure. Officers are on their way." I ended the call. For the first time since entering the house, I noticed something strange. The front door. There were no scratches around the lock. No damage. No sign that anyone had forced it open. I checked the windows. Locked. Every one of them. The security system was still active. I pulled out my phone and opened the security application. The system showed no alerts. No breach. No disabled cameras. Nothing. According to my house, nobody had entered. But someone was upstairs. And he was dead. I stood in the middle of my living room trying to make the facts fit together. They didn't. A loud knock came from the front door. I almost jumped. "Police!" I exhaled. "Coming." Two officers entered first, followed by a detective in a dark coat. She introduced herself as Detective Mara Bennett. Her eyes moved around the room before settling on me. "You called?" "Yes." "You're Damian Cole?" "Yes." She studied me for a second longer than necessary. "Where's the body?" "Upstairs." She nodded to the officers. "Show us." I followed them. The hallway seemed different now. Brighter. More real. Detective Bennett crouched beside the body without touching it. "Did you know him?" "No." She looked at me. "You found him?" "Yes." "When?" "About five minutes before I called." "Did you touch anything?" "No." "Did you move anything?" "No." "Did you touch the body?" "No." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you sure?" "Yes." She stood. The officers began photographing the room. I stayed near the staircase. I wanted to leave. I also wanted to know who the hell this man was. Detective Bennett reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of gloves. "Where were you before coming home?" "Out of town." "How long?" "Four days." "Anyone know you were away?" "My staff. My sister. A few friends." "And this man?" "I've never seen him before." She glanced toward the body. Then she pointed. "What's that?" I followed her gaze. The man's right wrist. The watch. My stomach tightened. "That," I said slowly, "is my watch." She looked at me. "What?" I stepped closer. "Not literally mine." I crouched beside her. "It looks exactly like mine." Detective Bennett glanced at my wrist. Then back at the dead man's. She reached toward it but stopped before touching. "Same brand?" "Same model." She looked at me again. "Expensive?" "Yes." "Common?" "No." Her expression changed. "How uncommon?" I stared at the dead man's wrist. "I was told only a limited number were made." "How many?" "I don't know." She stood. "Interesting." I didn't like the way she said it. "Detective." She turned. "Yes?" "I don't know this man." "I heard you." "I mean it." "I believe you." The words should have relieved me. They didn't. Because she looked back at the body as if she wasn't sure she believed herself. One of the officers approached. "Detective." She turned. "His wallet is empty." "What about his phone?" "Found it in his jacket." The officer held up a plastic evidence bag. A black phone. "Any identification?" "Not yet." Detective Bennett nodded. "Keep searching." The officer stepped away. Then the phone inside the evidence bag began to ring. Everyone froze. The sound was strangely loud in the quiet hallway. One ring. Two. Three. The officer looked at Detective Bennett. She motioned for him to check the screen. He lifted the phone. His expression changed. "What is it?" Bennett asked. He didn't answer immediately. He looked at me. Then at the screen. "Detective..." "What?" The officer swallowed. "The caller ID." I felt something cold move through my chest. "What about it?" Bennett asked. The officer turned the screen toward her. She stared. Then slowly looked at me. I stepped closer. The name displayed across the dead man's phone was impossible. It was my name. DAMIAN COLE. The phone kept ringing. And for the first time that night, I wondered if the dead man had been waiting for me.