The Fridge and the Fingerprint

“It’s never just a fridge. Not when you’re sleep-deprived, suspicious, and there’s a bloody fingerprint staring back at you.”

After a restless night, drifting in and out of consciousness, the morning felt like an extension of the sombre events from the previous evening. The weight of it all had lingered in the corners of my dreams, bleeding into waking. I had already been forced out of bed twice—first to feed the cats, then to let them outside, each interruption dragging me from sleep like a reluctant swimmer pulled from still water. Now, for the third time, I dragged myself up with a groan, a silent vow on my lips that this would be the final disturbance today.

The kitchen tiles met my bare feet like slabs of ice, their chill biting through my skin and sending a shiver up my spine. My limbs felt heavy, my movements sluggish as I crossed to the sink and held a glass beneath the tap. The water spluttered at first—thin, uncertain jets spitting into the glass—before resolving into a steady, rhythmic stream. I stood motionless, my fingers wrapped loosely around the glass, heart thudding like a drum in my chest. Each beat was an echo of everything left unsaid, unresolved.

I hadn’t heard a word from Cody since he’d slipped away after the memorial—no call, no message, not even the lingering scent of whiskey and firelight to mark his absence. His words still floated through my mind like smoke, abstract and unsettling. Death is merely a process... The phrase stuck to the inside of my throat, leaving behind a sour, pasty taste. Was it comfort he meant to offer? Or something else entirely? I’d never seen him look so raw before, that close to falling apart.

The glass overflowed. The cold splash jolted me. I blinked rapidly, watching as water sloshed over the rim and down my hand, pooling on the benchtop.

"Shit," I muttered, yanking the glass away and letting it clatter into the sink. The sharp ring of glass against metal snapped the kitchen’s stillness like a twig.

After hastily drying my hand on the hem of my top, I lifted the half-full glass to my lips and drank in several heavy gulps, as though it might wash the unease from my bones. It didn’t.

I turned towards the kitchen window, the morning light cutting in low and grey across the wooden decking. There, pacing in small, impatient loops outside the sliding door, was Snowflake—tail high, meowing incessantly, her sharp cries muffled slightly by the glass.

The sight of her—annoyed, entitled, completely herself—so normal, so domestic, was oddly grounding.

With a sigh, I padded across the tiles and slid open the door, letting the bracing afternoon air pour into the kitchen. Snowflake darted inside without hesitation, fur puffed slightly from the cold.

"Where’s your sister?" I asked, letting the question hang in the air as Snowflake trotted off towards her food bowl with single-minded purpose. I lingered in the doorway, one foot planted inside the warmth of the house, the other resting bare on the cool timber boards of the deck.

"Chloe!" I called, my voice cutting across the quiet. The wind met me with a chill, sending goosebumps crawling up both arms. "Come on, Chloe. It’s cold out here."

No sound. No movement.

"Chloe!" I called again, sharper this time, an edge of fear slipping in under the call. My chest tightened. How long had it been? An hour? Two? I hadn’t really looked at the clock.

Has something happened to my baby?

I rarely left them out unsupervised for more than a few minutes. They knew their boundaries. But this morning had slipped past in fragments, my mind hazy with fatigue and the aftershocks of last night.

"Or has it been?" I murmured aloud, stepping back into the house, tugging the door closed behind me. I pressed my hand against my forehead, kneading it as though I could massage the fog from my thoughts.

In the kitchen, Snowflake weaved circles of expectation around her empty bowl, completely unfazed by Chloe’s absence.

"I’m sure I let you both out…" I said slowly, unsure now, watching her little white paws trace familiar patterns. She paused only to glance up at me, ears twitching, tail curling like punctuation to an unspoken demand.

"I did let you both out, didn’t I?" I asked again, squinting down at her.

"Meow," she answered with wide, unbothered eyes.

"You’re really not much help, are you?" I sighed, bending to scratch her behind the ears despite myself.

"Meow," she repeated, louder now, circling towards the cupboard where her food was kept.

"You can eat when we find your sister," I said, the words falling out of my mouth like a deal struck in haste.

I turned from her and crossed the living room with purposeful steps, my eyes scanning the shadows. I didn’t know where Chloe was, or why my chest felt so tight, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to relax until I found her.

"Chloe, where..." My voice faltered mid-call, evaporating into the stillness of the house as a sudden burst of ringing and the abrupt vibration of my phone on the kitchen bench sliced through the quiet.

Startled, I blinked and turned. The sound grated on my already frayed nerves. With a sigh — more irritated than intrigued — I hurried over and snatched it up.

"Hi, Luke," I answered, pitching my tone to sound more collected than I felt.

"You too, hey?" Luke’s voice crackled on the line, oddly clipped.

"Huh?" My mind was elsewhere — tangled with thoughts of Chloe and the mounting anxiety that her absence was stirring.

"Oh. You sound tired," he clarified.

"Um. Yeah. It's been a big day," I said, though ‘big’ barely scratched the surface. My voice betrayed the fatigue swimming in my bones, each word dragging its feet like I was wading through emotional sludge.

"Hmph," Luke exhaled. The sound buzzed, too close and staticky in my ear, and I flinched, pulling the phone away slightly. "Tell me about it."

"Mm," I murmured, a non-committal reply.

"So, um, actually… I was wondering if I could get Cody’s number from you? I really need to talk to him about…" His words drifted off, unfinished — vague and abrupt.

As he spoke, my eyes had wandered to the fridge, zoning out as I listened. I stepped toward it slowly, the phone still pressed to my ear. My free hand lifted, almost without thought, and my fingers brushed the cool, stainless-steel surface. A strange vibration pulsed beneath the metal — or perhaps it was just my nerves — but it buzzed faintly against my skin, an odd current that felt slightly wrong.

Something wasn’t right with the fridge. I couldn’t put my finger on it — not properly. Just a sense. Like the room was holding its breath.

"Gladys, you there?"

Luke’s voice jolted me.

"Uh, yeah. Sorry, Luke," I said quickly, shaking my head to chase away the fog. "I don’t actually have his number."

There was a pause on the line.

"But haven’t you two been seeing each other for a few months now?" His tone was curious, maybe even a little sceptical.

"Well, yeah, sort of. But he hasn’t actually given me his number," I admitted, a thread of frustration creeping in. It sounded ludicrous even as I said it aloud.

"Address then?" Luke asked, pushing.

"No, nothing."

A beat passed.

"No worries. Thanks, Gladys," Luke said — curt, dismissive — and the call ended before I could even say goodbye.

I pulled the phone from my ear and stared at the screen, dumbfounded. The silence that followed was oppressive.

And then it hit me. Like a slap.

Shit.

My heart stuttered. The number. Cody had given me his number. He hadn’t said the words — hadn’t handed it over — but he’d written it on the side of the wine bottle. I’d even saved it.

I unlocked my phone again, thumb trembling slightly as I scrolled for Luke’s contact. I hovered, ready to send the number over.

But something pulled me back. A strange hesitation crawled over me, threading cold fingers through my ribs.

Should I really give it to him?

The thought settled heavy on my chest. What if I was wrong? What if giving Luke Cody’s number would expose something — put Cody in danger? Or someone else?

Before I could decide, the world shifted again.

A sharp, overpowering stench hit me like a punch to the face. Blood — thick and metallic — mingled with the unmistakable, stomach-turning reek of decay. It was vivid, not a memory but a sensory invasion so real I almost dropped the phone.

Gagging, I slammed my palm against the fridge to steady myself, bracing my weight. My knees threatened to buckle. The bile rose in my throat, hot and acrid.

The smell faded as quickly as it came, retreating like a wave sucked back to sea — but it left something behind.

A mark.

There, where my hand had landed, just above my grip — a faint smudge, dark red, smeared across the brushed metal. My heart lurched violently in my chest.

It was a fingerprint.

My breath hitched. I leaned in, eyes wide, the world narrowing to a point as I examined the sinister swirl. It was dry but unmistakable. A fingerprint. Bloody.

The panic that surged through me was white-hot and paralysing. I pulled my hand back slowly, as though the print might still be warm.

What did this mean? How had it gotten there? Was someone in my house last night? Was this from me? No — I would’ve seen it. This was new.

Every nerve in my body screamed as I stumbled back a step, clutching my phone to my chest like it might somehow shield me.

The question about Cody’s number was gone now — forgotten, irrelevant. It no longer mattered who wanted it or why.

All that mattered was the print, that crimson ghost on the fridge, whispering the only truth I needed to hear:

We are all in danger now.