Thomas loaded my wheelchair into the trunk and climbed into the back seat.

We drove in silence through the gray, rain-slicked streets of Denver.

The windshield wipers beat a steady, rhythmic pattern against the glass.

Outside, the mountains were completely hidden behind a thick wall of dark clouds.

I stared at the houses we passed, wondering how many of them held secrets like mine.

We turned onto the tree-lined avenue that led to the gated community where Ryan and I lived.

The iron gates of the subdivision were open.

As we approached the brick pillars of our driveway, I saw two blue and red lights flashing in the gray mist.

The police officers were already there, parked in two separate cruisers.

Laura stopped the SUV behind them.

A tall officer with a mustache walked over to my window.

I rolled it down, the damp air rushing into the warm car.

“Mrs. Parker?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m Emma Parker.”

“I’m Officer Miller,” he said. “We’re here to assist with the civil standby. Your husband is currently inside the residence.”