Shari Lapena - A Stranger in the House. A novel

O n this hot August night, Tom Krupp parks his cara leased Lexusin the driveway of his handsome two-story home. The house, complete with a two-car garage, is set behind a generous lawn and framed with beautiful old trees. To the right of the driveway, a flagstone path crosses in front of the porch, with steps leading up to a solid wooden door in the middle of the house. To the right of the front door is a large picture window the width of the living room.

The house sits on a gently curving street that ends in a cul-de-sac. The surrounding houses are all equally attractive and well maintained, and relatively similar. People who live here are successful and settled; everyones a little bit smug.

This quiet, prosperous suburb in upstate New York, populated with mostly professional couples and their families, seems oblivious to the problems of the small city that surrounds it, oblivious to the problems of the larger world, as if the American dream has continued to live on here, smooth and unruffled.

But the untroubled setting does not match Toms current state of mind. He cuts the lights and the engine and sits uneasily for a moment in the dark, despising himself.

Then, with a start, he notices that his wifes car is not in its usual place in the driveway. He automatically checks his watch: 9:20. He wonders if hes forgotten something. Was she going out? He cant remember her mentioning anything, but hes been so busy lately. Maybe she just went out to run an errand and will be back any minute. Shes left the lights on; they give the house a welcoming glow.

He gets out of the car into the summer nightit smells of freshly mown grassswallowing his disappointment. He wanted, rather fervently, to see his wife. He stands for a moment, his hand on the roof of the car, and looks across the street. Then he grabs his briefcase and suit jacket from the passenger seat and tiredly closes the car door. He walks along the path, up the front steps, and opens the door. Something is wrong. He holds his breath.

Tom stands completely still in the doorway, his hand resting on the knob. At first he doesnt know whats bothering him. Then he realizes what it is. The door wasnt locked. That in itself isnt unusualmost nights he comes home and opens the door and walks right in, because most nights Karens home, waiting for him. But shes gone out with her car and forgotten to lock the door. Thats very odd for his wife, whos a stickler about locking the doors. He slowly lets out his breath. Maybe she was in a rush and forgot.

His eyes quickly take in the living room, a serene rectangle of pale gray and white. Its perfectly quiet; theres obviously no one home. She left the lights on, so she must not have gone out for long. Maybe she went to get some milk. There will probably be a note for him. He tosses his keys onto the small table by the front door and heads straight for the kitchen at the back of the house. Hes starving. He wonders if shes already eaten or whether shes been waiting for him.

Its obvious that shes been preparing their supper. A salad is almost finished; she has stopped slicing mid-tomato. He looks at the wooden cutting board, at the tomato and the sharp knife lying beside it. Theres pasta on the granite counter, ready to be cooked, a large pot of water on the stainless steel gas stove. The stove is off and the water in the pot is cold; he dips a finger in to check. He scans the refrigerator door for a notetheres nothing written on the whiteboard for him. He frowns. He pulls his cell phone out of his pants pocket and checks to see if theres any message from her that he might have missed. Nothing. Now hes mildly annoyed. She might have told him.