Chapter 1
I had imagined my homecoming a hundred different ways.
None of them ended with my duffel bag hitting the floor.
After nine months overseas, all I wanted was to surprise my family.
I had spent the entire flight home thinking about Mom's face when she saw me walk through the door three days earlier than expected.
I didn't call.
That was the point.
I wanted the surprise.
The house looked exactly the same when the rideshare dropped me at the curb.
White shutters.
Fresh flowers beside the porch.
Mom's little ceramic welcome sign hanging crooked because she always refused to let me straighten it.
For the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe.
I adjusted the camouflage duffel on my shoulder and unlocked the front door.
"Mom!"
My voice echoed through the living room.
"I'm home early!"
I expected screaming.
Maybe crying.
Definitely one of Mom's hugs that lasted too long.
Instead, there was silence.
Then I heard something fall in the kitchen.
Mom appeared around the corner.
Denise Carter had never been good at hiding emotion.
Her face told me everything before she spoke.
She was afraid.
"Marcus?"
Her eyes widened.
I laughed uncertainly.
"Yeah. Your son. Remember me?"
She didn't laugh.
That was when the happiness drained out of me.
I looked around.
"What's wrong?"
Mom wiped her hands on her gray cardigan even though they weren't wet.
"You weren't supposed to be home today."
Something about the way she said it made my chest tighten.
"I know. That's why it's called a surprise."
She moved quickly toward me.
Too quickly.
Then she positioned herself directly between me and the hallway.
"You should have called first."
I stared at her.
"Why?"
"No reason."
"Mom."
"I'm just saying I would've cleaned."
I glanced around the spotless room.
Our house had never been messy a day in its life.
"You look nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
She was.
Very nervous.
Then I heard movement upstairs.
A heavy step.
A door closing.
My eyes shifted toward the staircase.
Mom noticed.
She stepped sideways, blocking my view again.
"Marcus, why don't you sit down?"
"No."
"You're probably exhausted."
"Who is here?"
Her lips parted.
Nobody answered.
Then came another sound.
A bedroom door opening.
I slowly turned.
A man appeared at the top of the stairs.
Andre.
My younger brother.
He wasn't wearing a shirt.
He had nothing around his waist except a white towel.
Water still glistened across his shoulders.
For several seconds, none of us moved.
Andre's face went completely pale.
"Marcus."
The duffel slipped from my hand.
It hit the hardwood floor with a heavy thud.
I barely heard it.
All I could hear was my own heartbeat.
Andre had supposedly been living across town with his girlfriend.
He wasn't supposed to have a reason to be walking out of one of the upstairs bedrooms half naked.
Especially not that bedroom.
Because I knew exactly which room was behind him.
Mine.
Mine and my wife Rachel's.
I looked at Mom.
Then at Andre.
Then back at Mom.
"Why is he here?"
Nobody answered.
I walked toward the stairs.
Mom grabbed my arm.
"Marcus, don't."
I pulled away.
"Don't touch me."
Andre raised both hands.
"Bro, listen."
"Do not call me that."
His jaw tightened.
"I can explain."
"Then explain why you're coming out of my bedroom wearing a towel."
He looked toward Mom.
That made something inside me snap.
"Don't look at her."
I moved closer.
"Look at me."
Andre swallowed.
"Marcus, you need to hear the whole story."
I laughed once.
There was nothing funny about it.
"The whole story?"
My hands were shaking.
Nine months.
Nine months of sleeping in temporary barracks, eating bad food, missing birthdays and holidays, calling my wife whenever our schedules matched.
Nine months of believing the people waiting for me at home were protecting everything I loved.
And my brother was standing half naked outside my bedroom.
I started climbing the stairs.
Mom stepped in front of me.
"Marcus, please."
"Move."
"Not until you calm down."
"Mom."
My voice dropped.
"Move."
She must have seen something in my face because she slowly stepped aside.
I reached the top.
Andre backed away.
I pointed toward the bedroom behind him.
"Was Rachel in there with you?"
His eyes widened.
"No."
"Don't lie."
"I'm not."
"Then what were you doing in my room?"
"I wasn't in your room."
I stared at him.
He pointed down the hall.
"I used the guest bathroom."
I looked.
The guest bathroom door stood open.
Steam drifted through it.
His clothes were folded over the hallway bench.
That gave me half a second of relief.
Then I remembered Mom's fear.
There was still something wrong.
Something worse.
I turned toward her.
"What's happening?"
Her eyes filled with tears.
That scared me more than anything.
"Marcus..."
"Tell me."
She looked at Andre.
He shook his head slightly.
I saw it.
"Stop communicating with your eyes like I'm not standing here!"
My voice thundered through the house.
Andre stepped forward.
"She was trying to protect you."
"From what?"
He hesitated.
Mom whispered,
"From what you were going to find."
My stomach twisted.
"Where's Rachel?"
Silence.
I grabbed my phone.
"I talked to her yesterday."
Mom closed her eyes.
"I know."
"She said she had a work conference."
Andre looked away.
I stared at him.
"You knew?"
"Marcus—"
"You knew where my wife was?"
He rubbed a hand over his face.
"I knew she wasn't at a conference."
My entire body went cold.
"Where is she?"
Neither of them answered.
I stepped toward Andre.
"If you're protecting her, I swear—"
"He isn't the person who betrayed you."
Mom's voice cut through the room.
Everything stopped.
I turned slowly.
"What?"
Mom was crying now.
"Andre didn't betray you."
I looked from her to him.
"Then who did?"
Mom didn't answer.
She looked toward the end of the hallway.
There was another bedroom.
The old room Dad used as an office before he died.
The door was closed.
I hadn't noticed it before.
Then the handle moved.
Slowly.
Someone was inside.
I couldn't breathe.
Andre stepped closer behind me.
"Marcus..."
I raised one hand.
"Don't."
The handle turned farther.
Mom whispered my name.
I couldn't take my eyes off that door.
Whoever was inside had heard everything.
My anger suddenly became fear.
Not fear that someone would hurt me.
Fear that whatever was about to walk through that door would destroy the version of my life I had carried home with me.
May you like
The latch clicked.
And the door began to open.
