The note was tucked under the windshield wiper, a pristine white rectangle against the dusty paint of the minivan. Sarah picked it up, her brow furrowing. She unfolded the crisp paper, the lines of complaint about late-night karaoke nights seeming to leap off the page. Karaoke? She hadn't even *owned* a karaoke machine. Her gaze darted towards her open garage, where nothing but gardening tools and a collection of mismatched plant pots were visible. Her heart began to pound a little too fast, a fluttery rhythm against her ribs. She reread the note, a knot forming in her stomach.
The implication was clear; it was *her* fault. She felt a strange tingling in her fingertips, an almost electric sensation. She looked up at her house, a perfectly ordinary two-story colonial. What could she possibly be doing to upset anyone? She blinked hard, certain she was missing something. The air around her suddenly felt thick and heavy, like a humid summer day.
She walked back inside, leaving the note crumpled in her hand. The sunlight streaming through the windows seemed unusually bright, almost accusatory. She glanced around the living room, at the neatly arranged furniture, the muted television, the closed windows. A small, confused sound escaped her lips.