I unlocked the front door and stepped into the hallway, expecting the faint scent of lavender that Tessa always wore. Instead, the air carried the sharp, sterile sting of industrial chlorine.
The house was silent, but it was a heavy silence that had been placed there on purpose.
I stood in the entryway and let my heavy canvas duffel bag slide off my shoulder to the floor. The thick strap made a dull thud against the dark hardwood.
My hand went to my left wrist, my thumb rubbing the bare skin where my watch usually sat. I had left the heavy steel chronograph in a metal tray in Germany three days ago during the transit.
On the small wooden console by the door, the ceramic dish where we kept our pocket change was exactly where it belonged. Beside it sat the brass door key on its leather fob.
The key looked untouched, catching the pale afternoon light coming through the high window of the foyer.
I walked into the living room, my boots leaving faint dust prints on the clean beige rug.
The sofa cushions were straight, almost too straight, as if someone had spent ten minutes smoothing out the fabric to hide a disturbance.
I checked the small digital clock on the mantelpiece. It read exactly 6:14 p.m.
The red light on the home security panel near the kitchen was not blinking. It was dark, completely lifeless.
I pressed the small rubber status button on the corner of the keypad, but the screen stayed black.
The system was completely dead, which made no sense because the digital clock on the stove was still showing the correct time.
The floorboards groaned near the kitchen doorway, and Detective Carter stepped into the room. He wore a rumpled gray suit jacket that smelled of stale tobacco and cold rain.
He tapped his silver pen against his small leather notebook, a steady, irritating rhythm that echoed in the quiet house.
“You must be John,” Carter said, his voice gravelly and slow. “We did not expect you back in the valley until tomorrow morning.”
“The transport got in early,” I said, my voice flat. “Where is my wife?”
