Jogging through the house, I catch sight of the leaping, howling, growling beast, trying her best to break down the back door.
“Pig? Calm down.”
I open the door, and she lunges past me, sprinting around the house, whining all the while. She tears through the rooms, as if searching for something.
Or someone.
Why would Luna have left Pig outside?
Her car wasn’t in the driveway, so I assumed she had gone out on an errand. But she’s not the forgetful type. Luna is a stickler about having Pig sit in her dog bed and shake for a treat before she leaves the house.
“Luna?” I call out.
No response.
As our dog continues her frantic searching, my heart rate speeds to match Pig’s quick, clicking steps. I follow her.
“What is it, sweet girl? Did something happen?” I can’t help asking, though I know she can’t answer.
Pig whines as she continues to sniff. Her attention seems to focus around the kitchen, and I notice a piece of paper sitting on the island.
I pick it up and read the few lines typed across the page, needing a full count of five to register what the sentences say.
This marriage was a mistake. I’m going to go stay with a friend back home. Don’t try to follow me. I’ll send you divorce papers in a few days.
Panic swamps me. Every insecurity I’ve had about our relationship and her feelings rising to the surface. I clutch at the center of my chest, sure I’ll find a gaping wound where my heart’s been torn out.
But as I gasp through the emotional torture, logic slowly overrides my initial reaction.
Luna wouldn’t leave like this.The thought sustains me.
Even if this were how Luna felt, she’d never type out a note and leave. She would tell me to my face, glaring all the while. Luna doesn’t run from confrontation. She batters her way through.
Which means someone else wrote this note.
And my wife is missing.
I jog to her bedroom, finding one of her duffels is gone with drawers pulled open and clothes strewn about. Someone left in a hurry. But again, I know it wasn’t Luna.
“What the fuck happened?” I drag my hands over my scalp, trying to get my mind to focus through the fog of panic.
I sprint to the front door, pausing on the porch and staring out into the road, as if there might be a neon arrow pointing in the direction she went.
That’s when I remember the security system. I rush back to the panel just off the front hall. Immediately, I know something is wrong with the tech. The display is completely blank when, normally, there’s a subtle glow as it waits for someone to tap the screen to life. When I try, the thing doesn’t do anything. I practically wrench it off the wall in my rush to discover what’s gone wrong with the overpriced technology that was supposed to protect the woman I love.
The wire leading to the wall is cut.
Fuck.
Definitely foul play.
And that’s when I know.
Her father.
The answer is so obvious that I’m tempted to bash my forehead against the wall. Of course it was Bill Lamont. The man knows where we live. He has every motive in the world to do something to her.
“Fuck,” I moan.
