I dropped the paper onto the desk, my lungs struggling to pull in air. Mrs. Dilmore reached out, steadying my arm as I swayed. She asked me what was wrong, but the words wouldn’t form in my throat. My mind raced through the blur of the past few weeks: my husband’s strange composure after the accident, how quickly he had organized a memorial service without a body, how he insisted on taking care of all legal matters while keeping me isolated and sedated in the hospital. He hadn’t been grieving; he had been wrapping up loose ends.
Without saying a word, I grabbed the letter and ran out of the school, the autumn air stinging my face as I burst through the front doors. I scrambled into my car, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. If my husband thought Owen had perished in that lake, or if he actually had Owen with him right now in hiding, I needed to know the truth immediately. I needed to find out where he went when he claimed he was settling paperwork or visiting the cemetery.
