My name is Clarence Vance, but everyone calls me Clay. I’m seventy-two years old, and I have lived right here in Atlanta, Georgia, ever since I married Estelle back in 1977. I retired after thirty-five years working as a production supervisor at Magnolia Steelworks, one of the biggest regional auto parts suppliers. What I’m going to…
I’d been married to Lauren since 1996. I met her when we were both twenty-three; me, fresh out of my accounting degree, and her, finishing her MBA at Northwestern. She was brilliant, ambitious, the kind of woman who made plans in five-year increments and actually followed through. I was the steady one, the practical one, the guy…
“You know what?” I said to the guard, my voice surprisingly steady. “I think I have the wrong building. I’m looking for Gerald Pharmaceuticals, not Meridian Tech.” The guard looked confused. “You said you were Mrs. Sterling’s husband.” “I said I was a friend of the family. Gerald‘s my name. Must have gotten my wires crossed.”…
wenty-eight years. I’d been married to Lauren for twenty-eight years, and apparently, she had another husband at work. Frank pressed the elevator button, pulled out his phone, and started scrolling. Every instinct I had screamed at me to confront him, to walk over there and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing…
“Mr. Sterling,” the guard called out, his voice friendly and familiar. “Your wife’s still in her three o’clock meeting. Should be done in about twenty.” The man, Frank Sterling, according to the security badge clipped to his lapel, nodded and headed toward the elevator bank. He hadn’t seen me yet. I was standing off to the…
The security guard at Meridian Technologies laughed when I told him I was Lauren’s husband. “Sir, I see her husband here every day. There he is right now, actually.” He pointed a thick finger toward the gleaming glass doors of the lobby. A man in a charcoal Tom Ford suit was walking through, radiating the easy confidence…
Saturday morning came and went. I busied myself with errands, enjoying the rare quiet of having the house to myself. Around 2:00 in the afternoon, my phone rang. Emma’s voice came through, shaky and small. “Mommy, can you come get me?” My stomach dropped. “What’s wrong, sweetie? Are you feeling sick?” “My hands really hurt,”…
Sophie and Dylan appeared briefly, gave half-hearted waves, then disappeared upstairs. I should have noticed the lack of enthusiasm, but I wanted my daughter to have a good time with family. “We’ll take great care of her,” Charlotte promised, already checking her phone as she spoke. “The girls are so excited.” I kissed my daughter…
. She’d chosen her favorite pajamas—the ones with little stars all over them—and brought along the craft supplies she’d been saving because Sophie had mentioned wanting to make friendship bracelets. The drive to Charlotte’s house took forty minutes, and Emma chattered the entire way about what movies they might watch and whether they’d stay up…
Charlotte lived in a pristine suburban home in a wealthy Connecticut suburb with her husband, Eric Thompson, and their girls were always dressed like catalog models. Emma adored her cousins, despite seeing them maybe three times a year. Friday evening arrived, and she had packed her overnight bag days in advance.