My husband kissed me goodbye, saying he was heading out of town for work. I believed him. Then I showed up at our lake house with the kids and found him digging a grave-sized pit in the backyard.
He froze when he saw me and screamed at me to stay back. I should’ve listened. Adam stumbled into my life 12 years ago.
I still remember that rainy Tuesday. He walked into my little café downtown, dripping wet and clutching his laptop. He ordered a cappuccino and asked if our Wi-Fi could handle a “code deployment.” I laughed and told him I had no idea what that meant.
But I promised to make his coffee strong enough to power whatever magical computer spell he was casting. He kept coming back every Tuesday. Then he started showing up every day.
And somehow, he never left. Now we’re married with two kids, Kelly and Sam. And we juggle two coffee shops that barely keep us sane during the morning rush.
Adam leads a tech team at some startup with a name I still can’t pronounce. We’re busy people, but we’re happy people. At least, I thought we were until the lake house changed everything.
Adam’s father left it to us three years ago. It’s a creaky old place with uneven floors and windows that stick in the summer heat. But it sits right on Millfield Lake, and when the sun sets, the water turns gold.
The kids love it there. We all do. It’s where we go to breathe and unwind.
Last Friday, Adam kissed me goodbye at the kitchen counter. “Portland trip,” he said, adjusting his tie. “Three days max.
Conference stuff.”
I nodded, stirring Kelly’s oatmeal. “Drive safe. Call when you get there.”
“Love you.” He grabbed his travel bag and was gone.
***
Saturday morning came bright and clear. The kind of day that makes you want to throw everything in a car and drive until you find water. “Who wants to go to the lake?” I called out to the kids.
Kelly and Sam nearly knocked me over while racing to pack their swimsuits. “Can we build the biggest sandcastle ever?” Sam asked, bouncing on his toes. “We’ll build a whole sand kingdom, champ!” I promised.
The gravel driveway crunched under our tires as we pulled up to the lake house. I was digging through my purse for the house keys when Kelly’s voice cut through the afternoon quiet. “Mommy, why is Daddy’s car here?”
My heart started to race.
There, parked in the shade of the old beech trees, sat Adam’s silver Mercedes. The same car that was supposed to be in Portland. The same car that had left our driveway yesterday morning.
“Stay in the car. Both of you. Don’t move.”
“But Mommy…”
“Don’t move.”
I walked toward the house.
Each step felt like walking through wet cement. The front door was ajar. I pushed it with my fingertips and stepped inside.
“Adam?”
No answer. An empty coffee mug and a kettle sat on the table. Beside Adam’s reading glasses lay yesterday’s newspaper, folded neat and precise, just the way Adam always left it.
“Adam, are you in here?”
Nothing seemed out of place, yet everything felt wrong. Then I saw it. Through the kitchen window, past the little herb garden I’d planted last spring, was a freshly dug pit.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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