I replayed my own youth, how secrecy once thrilled me, and how my parents’ questions always sounded like accusations. Were we turning out to be our parents? Was she simply guarding her independence? Or was there something more in her silence? Memory didn’t comfort me; it only sharpened my dread.
Martin’s suspicion grew heavier by the day. He lingered by the window at dusk, waiting for the shape of her return. He tracked the times she was late, and the hours unaccounted for. “This is how it starts,” he muttered darkly, as though rehearsing and preparing for a tragedy.