We worked in silence for the next twenty minutes, taping the cardboard boxes shut.

The house felt empty, like a shell of the life we had spent years building here.

Every piece of furniture reminded me of a promise Preston had broken.

We carried the first two boxes down the spiral marble staircase.

The foyer was dark, lit only by the streetlights outside.

I unlocked the front door to load the boxes into my SUV.

The cool autumn wind swept in, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and dead leaves.

I set my box down on the porch and looked down the driveway.

A black sedan was parked across the street.

Its headlights were turned off, but the exhaust was idling in the cold air.

Someone was watching the house.

“Mia, get inside,” I whispered, pushing her back into the warmth of the foyer.

“Is that Preston?” she whispered, her face pale.

“I don’t know,” I said.

My phone buzzed in my pocket again.

I pulled it out, my fingers cold.

It was a call from an unlisted number.