I cried in my husband’s arms at the airport as he boarded what he claimed was a two-year work assignment in Zurich

“Why?”

“Because I needed to make sure Lucas actually left.”

Something cold moved through my chest.

“He left,” I said. “He got on the plane.”

“To San Diego,” she replied.

I closed my eyes.

Not Zurich.

Not even Palm Springs directly.

San Diego.

“He had a connection,” she continued. “A private car booked from there. Palm Springs by evening.”

I tightened my grip on the phone. “How do you know that?”

“Because I’ve been following his arrangements for six weeks.”

The room seemed suddenly smaller.

I looked at the laptop again. The bank screen had dimmed. The confirmation button was still there, waiting like a trap.

“Grace,” I said slowly, “you have about ten seconds to explain why I shouldn’t call the police.”