Their street looked painfully unchanged, sunlight dappling the driveway. He fumbled the key twice before the lock turned. “Lina?” His voice echoed into the stillness. The living room sat exactly as they’d left it—her mug on the coffee table, a folded blanket on the couch. The lack of footsteps and laughter made his heart drop.
The police moved through methodically, checking each room, scanning surfaces for notes or signs of hurried packing. Ethan hovered uselessly, glancing toward the hallway, half expecting her silhouette to appear at the bedroom door. “Nothing here,” one officer murmured to another. The words were calm and chillingly final.