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The house felt suddenly very small.

The rain lashed against the high kitchen windows, casting long, wavering shadows across the marble countertops.

The smart-fridge hummed, a low, mechanical purr that sounded like a warning.

I looked at the copper skillet hanging on the wall.

Then I looked down at the seam in the floorboards near the base of the island.

There was a faint, chemical smell in the air.

I had thought it was just the sealant Julian used for the wood.

Now, my stomach churned.

The copper skillet had been a wedding gift from my mother.

It hung on a brass hook, polished every Sunday because Julian insisted on flawless surfaces.

I stared at the laptop screen again, my face inches from the glass.

The curve of the copper stretched the image, bending the straight lines of the cabinet into a warped dome.

But the detail was undeniable.

The pale skin of the wrist.

The distinct, rigid plastic of the zip-tie.

The hand was small, the fingernails painted a chipped shade of pale pink.

I knew that color.