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Door open, Vito rushed in, searching. He vanished from sight as he searched the condo.
“Marc?” I followed the dog, sniffing the comforting aroma of slow-cooked beef and vegetables. I was thinking of what bottle of red I’d open to go with dinner. In the kitchen, Marc’s loaf of beer bread topped a cooling rack. I was happy to see he’d put in some dried herbs to enhance its homely charm even more.
I turned, examining the living room, almost expecting Marc to pop up from behind the couch. But the room was still, other than rain pelting against the windows.
It should have felt homey and warm. But it didn’t. A chill ran up and down my spine.
Worry crept into my voice as I called out Marc’s name again.
No response.
I went into each bedroom, peered into each of the two bathrooms. The place was deserted.
Had he run out to the store to get butter? Dessert?
We were good about checking in with each other. We always texted if we weren’t where we were expected to be.
“Marc?” I called out louder, as though volume would return my missing husband.
Vito let out a single bark and returned to stand sentry at my calves.
I reached down to scratch him behind the ears. “Where is he, boy?”
I pulled my phone from my pocket, hoping to see a text I’d missed from Marc. But there was nothing. I keyed:
Where are you? Supper’s almost ready. A little worried…
I waited, staring down at the screen, willing it to respond. After a couple of minutes, I decided I’d simply wait for him. He had to have run out on an errand, maybe believing he’d get home before I did.
I was pouring myself a glass of wine when I noticed his phone on the kitchen counter.I guess he won’t be texting back. I laughed, but not without some uneasiness. Marc regularly forgot to take his phone with him when he went out, a source of friction for us.
This time, the sight of the iPhone, lying there so innocently, made me shiver.
“Where are you?” I wondered aloud.
I checked the slow-cooker to make sure it was now on the warm setting. I turned the oven on and set the temperature to two-hundred. I’d wrap his loaf of bread in foil and put it in there to keep warm. I checked the butter dish—there was a full stick of Kerrygold, ready to go.
I moved to the living room and sat down. The wine I’d set on the coffee table didn’t look appetizing. My stomach churned and not from hunger. I told myself I was on edge because of the lakefront encounter with Jeb.
“Nothing is wrong,” I said softly to myself.
The dark sky and the patter of the rain against the windows normally would have made me feel at home, cozy. Now it did the opposite.
I stood again. Vito eyed me from the chair he’d occupied opposite the couch. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but even he seemed ill at ease, worried, restless.
I rose again and moved to the window to stare outside. The rain had slowed, and the sky was an odd greenish color. The street was unusually deserted, clear of even vehicular traffic, let alone foot.
“Are you out there?” I asked. “Where?”
I tried to reason with myself. I’d only been home for fifteen minutes, maybe even less, so there was really no reason for this black shroud of dread I pulled over myself.Everything is fine, I tried to make myself believe.He’ll walk in the door, dripping wet, and holding our reusable shopping bag, any minute now.
But he didn’t. And as the sky darkened again, split by lightning, I turned away for moved toward the front door.
It was then, finally then, that I noticed the crimson smear of a bloody handprint on the doorframe.
I gasped and sat down suddenly on the floor.
IV
