Elena Hart woke at 6:12 in the morning and discovered someone had moved her shoes.
For several seconds, she simply stared at the empty patch of carpet beside the chair.
Then she checked beneath the bed.
Nothing.
Closet.
Nothing.
Bathroom.
Nothing.
Her pulse accelerated.
Ridiculous.
They were shoes.
Cheap black sneakers with worn soles and a scratch along the left heel.
Nothing important.
Except Elena had left them beside the chair.
She remembered because Elena remembered where she put everything.
Shoes.
Keys.
Phone.
Medication.
Exit routes.
Windows.
Objects near doors that could become weapons.
Twenty years of surviving had made organization less of a personality trait and more of a nervous system.
Things did not move without a reason.
Doors did not open without a reason.
Cars did not remain parked outside for too long without a reason.
People did not ask questions without wanting something.
