It was a night in October of 2004 when everything changed. I still remember the metallic click of my key in the door. It was late, clients had run long, traffic even longer — and all I wanted was to get out of my work clothes and lie down.
Instead, the house felt … wrong. Though my husband’s truck was in the driveway, everything was dark. The porch light wasn’t even on.
I called out his name as I stepped into the foyer — once, twice, then louder a third time. No answer. It was too quiet, like someone had pressed mute on a life that usually hummed with stereo music and my husband’s booming voice.
I heard the wind chimes tinkling in the breeze on the deck. There was not even a sign of our cat. “Hello?” I called, more hesitantly. My chest tightened as I walked through the dark house, then spotted a dim light shining under the closed dining room door. I sensed there was something wrong as I pushed the door open. That’s when I saw him.
He’d positioned a spotlight to shine on his body. He’d always had a flair for the theatrical.
