I cried in my husband’s arms at the airport as he boarded what he claimed was a two-year work assignment in Zurich.
“Grace,” I said slowly, “you have about ten seconds to explain why I shouldn’t call the police.”
“You probably should,” she said. “Eventually.”
“Eventually?”
“Not before you look in your safe.”
My eyes shifted toward the hallway.We had a safe in the back of the coat closet. Fireproof, heavy,
bolted into the floor. Lucas kept passports there, insurance documents, property papers, birth certificates. I hadn’t opened it in months.
“What’s in my safe?”
“That depends on what he removed.”
I swallowed.
“Removed?”
“Lucas was at your house yesterday afternoon while you were at the dentist.”
I said nothing.
