"When I turned 80, I threw a party for my whole family. No one showed up. I called my son, and that’s when my daughter-in-law answered: “We’re traveling. Go do some cleaning.” A week later, they came back home and found the new owners... The shrew froze when it happened....

Sunday afternoon at three-fifteen was sweltering on Whispering Pines Way.

The yellow airport taxi pulled up to the curb, its trunk popping open with a mechanical clatter.

Tyson stepped out onto the asphalt, his sunburned skin peeling around the collar of his linen shirt. He was hungover, irritable, and furious. His bank cards had been rejected twice at the resort checkout, forcing him to use Tatum’s emergency high-interest credit card to pay the bill.

“Tyson, grab the large luggage!” Tatum yelled from the backseat, her voice piercing the quiet afternoon. She was wearing oversized designer sunglasses and holding Marcus’s arm as the nine-year-old whined about being thirsty. “Michael, stop kicking your brother. Janine better have made that iced tea I asked for. If the air conditioning isn’t down to seventy degrees, I’m going to lose my mind.”

“Mom’s probably asleep on the couch,” Tyson muttered, dragging four oversized suitcases across the lawn. “I told her to have dinner on the table at five. I’m going to have a serious talk with her about that three thousand dollars. She’s getting obstinate in her old age.”

They walked up the flagstone steps to the front porch.

Tyson reached into his pocket, pulled out his brass house key, and shoved it into the lock.

It didn't turn.

He frowned, jiggling the key violently. “What the hell?”

“What are you doing, Tyson?” Tatum snapped, dropping her purse onto the porch chair. “Just unlock the door.”

“The key doesn’t fit,” Tyson said, sweating through his shirt. He leaned closer to the handle. “Wait a minute. This isn’t our deadbolt. It’s an electronic keypad. Did she call a handyman to change the lock because it was sticking?”

Tatum let out a sharp, theatrical groan. “I swear, she does this just to spite us! Janine! Open the door!”

Tatum slammed her open palm against the heavy oak wood, rattling the decorative brass knocker.

“Janine! We know you’re in there! Open this damn door right now! It’s ninety degrees out here!”

Inside the house, there was no sound of shuffling slippers. No timid, apologetic voice saying, *I’m coming, sweetie.*

Michael kicked the base of the door. “Grandma! I want ice cream! Open up!”

“Janine!” Tyson roared, stepping back and cupping his hands around his mouth to shout toward the upper windows. “Stop playing games and open the door! We’ve been traveling for ten hours!”

Ten seconds later, the heavy electronic deadbolt engaged with a smooth, motorized *click*.