Page 22 of My Only

Still, I opened them anyway.

Looked, just to be sure.

And when I saw it—when I saw that she hadn’t returned to our bed after I came home, something inside me twisted.

I got up.

Didn’t hesitate.

Padded across the room.

Took the stairs down to the ground floor where the guest bedroom was.

I turned the knob, pushed the door open and stopped cold.

The bed was neatly made. The room empty.

I jerked my head back.

Glanced over my shoulder, scanning the lower level of the house.

The house I designed as a teenager and redesigned with her in mind.

The sunlight poured in through one of the many skylights she loved.

And yet, she was nowhere.

What the fuck?

I moved through the house.

Kitchen? Empty.

Backyard? Nothing.

Laundry room? Vacant.

“Where the hell is she?”

Had this been any other morning, I would’ve known.

She’d be in Manhattan, setting up her classroom for her preschoolers.

But school was out.

Summer recess had started last week.

And this wasn’t even a day she left the house.

She had always used today as a rest day after a long school year.

So where the fuck was my wife?

I reached for my phone.

Then stopped.

No.

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