I drove to work, the radio playing a song I’d heard a thousand times, completely unaware that those were the last normal words he would ever speak to me.

My morning was a blur of policy reviews and liability assessments. But a strange knot tightened in my stomach, a primal instinct whispering that something was off alignment. I tried to call Jackson around noon to see if he wanted to grab a quick lunch, but his line was busy. It was always busy lately.

Then, I reached for the Anderson file—crucial paperwork for a 2:00 p.m. meeting—and realized it was still sitting on the entryway table at home.

I cursed under my breath, told my boss I needed an hour for a personal emergency, and got into my car. The drive took fifteen minutes. I rehearsed the sequence in my head: run in, grab the file, maybe give Jackson a quick kiss, and race back. Life has a cruel, almost theatrical way of laughing at our simplest plans.

When I turned onto my street, the first thing that struck me was the vehicle in my driveway. It was a silver SUV, familiar in a way that made my skin prickle. It belonged to Caroline Collins, my neighbor from directly across the street.