The car was moving too fast, its tires squealing against the wet concrete.

The paramedic turned to look.

“What is he doing?” the paramedic muttered.

The car, a black sedan, skidded to a halt near the elevator bank we had just left.

The driver’s side door flung open.

Even through the rain and the distance, I recognized the tan trench coat.

It was Nathan.

He hadn’t fled the neighborhood yet.

He had come back to the garage.

He was carrying a thick leather briefcase, the one he kept locked in his study.

He didn’t see the ambulance parked in the shadow of the concrete pillar.

He ran toward the elevator doors, his shoes splashing through the puddles on the garage floor.

He pressed the call button repeatedly, his body language frantic.

“Nathan,” I whispered, my throat dry.

He froze, his head snapping toward the sound of my voice.

He looked through the rain, his eyes locking onto the open back doors of the ambulance.

Our eyes met across the dim, echoing garage.

For a second, the mask of the charming, confident husband was completely gone.