The rain was the first thing to betray us. It had been hammering against the roof of our suburban sanctuary for hours, a relentless, drumming rhythm that masked the sound of tires on gravel. I was sitting in the living room, a half-read novel resting on my lap, while the storm turned the world outside our windows into a blurred watercolor of grey and black.
My husband, Daniel, was supposed to be in Chicago. He was closing a deal that had kept him awake for three weeks straight, a merger that promised to secure our financial future but had cost us his presence at the dinner table. I missed him. The house felt too large, too hollow without his heavy footsteps and the scent of his cologne—a mix of cedar and old paper—lingering in the hallway.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table, lighting up the dim room.
