« GO HOME, MARINE. »
My stomach clenched. A second message appeared.
« YOUR WIFE LEFT THE PORCH LIGHT ON. »
I ran.
The trip should have taken twenty-two minutes. It took me thirteen. Every red light felt like an insult. Every slow car became an obstacle. All along the way, I called Carol. No answer. Again. No answer.
Then I remembered. She was still in the hospital. The house should have been empty. That should have reassured me. It didn’t.
Because Raymond knew that Carol had left the porch light on. Which meant that someone had been watching our house before she left for work.
I called the police switchboard and reported the messages. I was told units were on their way. I knew what that meant. Minutes. Sometimes minutes are enough. Sometimes they feel like an eternity.
When I turned onto our street, the porch light shone above the steps. Everything seemed normal. Too normal. The neighbor’s sprinklers clicked on his lawn. A dog barked three houses down. A television flickered behind curtains. My front door was closed.
