The mid-afternoon sun poured through the massive, unshaded windows of the three-bedroom craftsman house, illuminating dust motes dancing in the silent air. It was a beautiful space—high vaulted ceilings, original oak floors that smelled of fresh wax and lemon oil, and a wraparound porch that seemed to beg for lazy Sunday mornings.
It was supposed to be the beginning of my “forever.”
I stood in the center of the echoey living room, the heavy brass keys to the front door cold and solid in my palm. We had closed on the house two hours ago. My husband, Ethan, had kissed me on the forehead at the title company, told me he had to run a quick errand to pick up paint samples, and drove off whistling.
I was imagining where the sofa would go when my phone buzzed in my pocket.
The name on the screen made my stomach tighten: Maya.
