Marcus swallowed. “Then how did this happen?”

Before Lily could answer, three slow, deliberate knocks echoed from downstairs.

Marcus stiffened. So did I.

Lily’s eyes widened—as if she recognized the sound.

The silence in the house turned electric.

The knocks came again. Steady. Polite. Wrong.

Lily moved closer to me, clutching my sleeve. I whispered, “Stay behind me,” as Marcus headed toward the stairs.

It was nearly 8:30 on a Tuesday. We weren’t expecting anyone. And Lily’s reaction—too quick, too knowing—made my pulse race.

Through the frosted glass of the front door, we saw a tall, lean silhouette, dressed like someone in uniform. Marcus hesitated, then opened the door a crack.

A man in a delivery vest stood on the porch holding a clipboard.

“Package for… Lillian Harper?” he asked.

“Our daughter?” Marcus replied cautiously.

The man nodded, lifting a small padded envelope. No logo. No return address.

“I need a signature,” he said.

Before Marcus could answer, Lily peeked down the stairs—and the man’s eyes snapped toward her. Too fast. Too focused. His expression stayed neutral, but his posture shifted.

Marcus closed the door a bit more. “Who sent it?”

The man’s smile tightened. “Just need a signature.”

I stepped forward. “We’re not accepting anything without sender information.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he lowered the clipboard. “Suit yourself.”

He set the envelope on the welcome mat and walked away—not toward a delivery truck, but toward a dark sedan parked down the block.