Houseguest
He listened to Emily’s footsteps move purposefully across the kitchen floor above him. In twenty minutes, her automatic garage door would grind open and her car engine kick in. Then the house would be his again for nine to eleven hours depending on how late she worked. He waited another five minutes to make sure she did not forget anything, but she never did. Emily was a creature of habit, the most organized person he had ever happened across. He supposed that was what came from living without people or pets.
He had never seen Emily, but figured she was one of two women in a photo that stood on her dresser. There were no pictures of men or children, so he further assumed she had never been married. Her wardrobe belonged to a woman no younger than forty, someone who worked in an office and did not go out much.