Then the woman called to him.

Not Grant.

“Caleb, can you grab my bag?”

He turned instantly.

My chest tightened.

Caleb.

My husband had another name.

That night, after Miles fell asleep in our Charleston hotel, I sat by the window staring at the city lights.

For three years, I had mourned a man apparently living somewhere else.

I remembered every hard moment after Grant disappeared.

Miles crying before a father-son school event.

His first Christmas secretly placing a present beneath the tree with Grant’s name on it.

The bills Grant left behind.

The nights I lay awake wondering whether he had been terrified in his final moments.

I had defended him whenever anyone suggested he might have disappeared deliberately.

Now I didn’t know which hurt more.

Losing him once, or realizing perhaps I had never truly known him.

## The Voice Below Our Balcony

The next day, I tried giving Miles the vacation I had promised.

We walked along the waterfront, ate outside, and visited the aquarium.

I kept telling myself I needed proof before doing anything reckless.

Maybe there was an explanation.

Perhaps Grant had lost his memory.

Perhaps he had been injured.

Perhaps he was hiding from someone dangerous.

The mind becomes generous when the heart fears the obvious.

That evening, Miles watched television while I stood on our balcony.

Then I heard a familiar voice below.

“Sienna, I told you I am not spending another thousand dollars because you suddenly decided you hate the earrings you bought yesterday.”