A second voice, deeper and unfamiliar, answered from *inside my house*.
“Then she knows.”
A strangled gasp escaped my lips, and my hand flew to my mouth to stifle it. My world, the safe, predictable world I had built for six years, tilted on its axis and shattered into a million unrecognizable pieces.
Through a narrow gap between two attic floorboards, I could see a sliver of the hallway below, illuminated by a faint, ghostly light from a source I couldn’t identify. **Caleb** stood there. He was dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, just as he’d been when he went to bed. But under one arm, he had my laptop—the one I used for my freelance bookkeeping.
And beside him stood a stranger. A tall man in a long, black raincoat, droplets of water glistening on his shoulders. He was an invading darkness in the sanctuary of my home.
The stranger handed Caleb a small, hard-shelled case.
Caleb opened it. My breath caught in my throat. Inside, nestled in foam, were three passports.
One had my husband’s photo.
