“Bring whatever you need to show me, Clara,” he said softly.

“I will,” I said.

We hung up.

I stared at the manila folder on the counter.

The black ink on the white pages seemed to burn through the cardboard.

I walked to the living room and placed the folder inside my leather tote bag.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my hand.

It was an alert from our shared home security system.

The front gate had just opened.

Ethan wasn’t supposed to be home for hours.

I heard the sound of tires on the wet gravel driveway outside.

My heart began to hammer against my ribs.

I looked at the tote bag, then at the stairs.

The front door lock clicked.

I slid the leather tote bag behind the decorative ceramic umbrella stand.

My fingers were cold against the smooth leather.

The brass doorknob turned.

The heavy oak door swung open, letting in a gust of damp suburban air.

Ethan stood in the entryway.

His tie was slightly loosened, and his charcoal overcoat was damp from the mist.

He stopped when he saw me standing in the hall.