I cried in my husband’s arms at the airport as he boarded what he claimed was a two-year work assignment in Zurich
The photograph was not of Lucas.
That was the first thing my mind registered, and for one strange second, relief flickered through me.
Then I looked closer.
It was a picture of our house.
Our front door.
Our porch.
Taken from across the street, slightly angled, as though whoever had taken it had been sitting in a parked car under the maple tree near Mrs. Bellamy’s mailbox.
My breath caught.
The photo showed me and Lucas leaving the house together that morning, each of us dressed for the airport. Lucas was smiling. I was looking down, pretending to search for something in my purse. It was ordinary enough, almost dull.
Except someone had been watching us.
I enlarged the image with trembling fingers.
In the reflection of the living room window, barely visible behind the porch column, was a figure standing near the side gate.
A woman.
Dark coat. Sunglasses. One hand resting on her rounded stomach.
Melanie Harper.
I stared until my eyes burned.
My phone buzzed again.
Another message.
“Don’t transfer the money yet.”
