It was coming from upstairs. From the master bathroom. My bathroom.

My first thought was mundane: Jackson is taking a mid-day shower. But the knot in my stomach pulled tighter, turning into a cold, heavy stone. Where was Caroline? Why was her car here if she wasn’t?

I began to climb the stairs. Every step felt heavier than the last, as if gravity was increasing with my elevation. My mind, usually so logical, began to fracture, grasping at straw-man explanations. Maybe her plumbing burst. Maybe there was an emergency.

I reached the landing. The door to our bedroom was cracked open. The sound of the water was a roar now, but beneath it, I heard something else. A low, guttural murmur. Then a giggle.

My hand trembled as I reached for the bedroom door. Part of my brain—the lizard brain that just wants to survive—screamed at me to turn around. Go back to work. Forget the file. Don’t look.

But the claims adjuster in me needed to assess the damage. I needed to see the wreckage.

I pushed the door open.