My Husband Texted “Stay Upstairs” Before Our Son’s Birthday—Then an Officer at the Door and a Blue Folder Changed What He Thought He Knew
Ethan followed Margaret’s gaze to the window.
One car had parked beside my aging SUV.
In the bright morning light, the SUV looked exactly as it always had: a little dusty, with a faded parking permit and a crack in the cup holder Noah considered excellent.
“Claire,” Ethan said, “what is happening?”
“My transport may have a scheduling error.”
“Your transport?”
“For my return from leave.”
Margaret looked from the vehicles to me.
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