he sound of keys.
Jingle. Slide. Click.
The front door opened.
A gust of wind swept through the house, carrying the scent of rain and wet earth. Then the door slammed shut.
“Hello?” the voice called out from inside the foyer. “Claire? Emily? Where are you girls?”
My chest tightened until it felt like it might snap. The footsteps began. They moved across the hardwood floor of the living room, heading toward the kitchen.
But the footsteps were wrong.
Daniel had shattered his ankle playing soccer in college. He walked with a distinctive, heavy drag on his right side—thud-slide, thud-slide. It was the rhythm of our marriage, a sound I had known for twelve years.
These steps were even. Measured. Light. Click-clack. Click-clack.
Emily buried her face in my shirt, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. She had known. Somehow, she had known before the door even opened.
Through the crack in the cupboard door, I saw a pair of shoes step into the kitchen.
They were heavy, black military-style boots, caked with fresh mud.
Daniel owned loafers. He owned running shoes. He did not own black combat boots.
Then, the phone in my pocket vibrated against my hip. The sound was a low buzz, but in the silence of the kitchen, it sounded like a gunshot.
The boots stopped moving.
I squeezed my eyes shut, praying, begging the universe for silence. I slowly, agonizingly, fished the phone from my pocket, shielding the light with my palm.
A text message lit up the screen.
Daniel: Just landed. Taxi line is huge. Be home in 45 mins. Love you.
My blood ran cold. The world tilted on its axis.
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