When I arrived home, my husband’s car wasn’t in the driveway. I felt relieved; I needed time to investigate before confronting him. I entered the house in complete silence, as if I were an intruder in my own home. I rushed upstairs and went straight to Owen’s room. The smell of clean laundry and his youthful cologne still lingered in the air, breaking my heart once again, but this time I didn’t allow myself to cry.
I went straight to the closet. On the bottom shelf was the wooden toolbox my father had built for Owen a year before he died. With clumsy fingers, I pulled out the screwdrivers and hammers, leaving the bottom bare. I began to feel the wood, searching for any imperfection, any raised area. Right in the right corner, I noticed a small tab. I pressed hard, and a thin sheet of wood lifted, revealing a hidden compartment.
Inside there was a stack of folded papers and a USB memory device.
I spread the documents out on Owen’s bed. They were authentic copies of an international life insurance policy, issued in my son’s name for an astronomical sum. The start date matched exactly what Owen had written: a year and a half ago. But the most chilling thing was the printouts of the emails. In them, my husband was talking to an unknown man about “the cleanest method” and how “the lake’s currents at this time of year ensure that the search is futile.”
A noise downstairs sent a chill down my spine. The sound of the front door opening and the echo of familiar footsteps filled the house.
“Honey? Are you home?” my husband’s voice echoed from the hallway, sounding so calm, so everyday, so monstrously normal.
I hurriedly gathered the papers, stuffing them and the letter inside my jacket, and hid the USB drive in my hand. I tried to regulate my breathing before stepping out into the hallway. I had to act normal; I couldn’t let him find out I knew everything now. My life, and Owen’s memory, depended on my ability to conceal the truth until I could reach the authorities. I peeked over the stairs and saw him taking off his coat—the same man I woke up to every morning, now the most unsettling of str
angers.
