I smiled, but I wasn’t so sure. Verna wasn’t subtle. She liked control and knowing everything. The first few days were okay—she unpacked, made tea, and retold stories I’d heard a dozen times. She was polite. Too polite.
Then I noticed things. My closet felt wrong. Sweaters were stacked differently. My jeans, always folded just right, were off. My perfume bottle had shifted a few inches.
“That’s weird,” I said one morning, staring at it.
Owen glanced up from his phone. “What is?”
“Someone’s been in our room.”
