At home that evening, the house was exactly as Rachel had left it.

A grocery list hung by a magnet on the refrigerator.

Her sneakers were beneath the bench.

A half-finished crossword lay on the couch, and her mug stood on the windowsill.

For three days I had walked past these objects as relics.

Now they were evidence that she had expected to return.

I found the filing cabinet key in the pocket of my work jacket, where she had told me to keep it after a break-in at the construction office.

Inside the cabinet were warranties, property plans, our son’s school pictures, and a plain envelope marked “For Brian if I cannot explain.” My heart began to race.