The yellow cab ride from JFK across the bridge had cost forty-two dollars, and I had tipped the driver ten more just to get home twenty minutes faster. I had spent twelve hours on a flight from Munich, my mind occupied by thoughts of my three-week-old son and my wife. My work as a mechanical engineer often kept me on long overseas shifts, but this time, the distance had felt like an anchor dragging behind me.
The key turned in the lock, but the heavy oak door did not budge because the deadbolt was already thrown from the inside. I leaned my forehead against the cold wood of our Park Slope apartment and listened. Usually, the low hum of the television or the murmur of Maya’s voice would drift through the crack, but the hallway was entirely silent.
I knocked three times, my knuckle striking the brass house number.
