The absolute silence of the dead line echoed in the quiet car, leaving Clara staring blankly at her phone. Tom’s voice had been frantic, yet the background of his call was entirely devoid of wind, heavy breathing, or the voices of a dozen other men trekking up a mountain. The discrepancy gnawed at her, turning the knot in her stomach into a hard, painful lump.
Driven by a desperate, agonizing need for clarity, Clara started her engine. She couldn’t go back to an empty house with these doubts swirling in her head. She drove straight to their local church, determined to find the truth and put an end to the terrifying scenarios flashing through her mind.
She found the parish priest, Father Thomas, organizing hymnals in the quiet, empty lobby. Attempting to sound like a doting, forgetful wife, she nervously asked for the specific coordinates of the men’s campsite, claiming she needed to know in case of a family emergency.
The priest looked at her with genuine bewilderment, setting the hymnals down on a wooden pew. “The men’s retreat, Clara? We don’t have anything like that planned until late summer. In fact, Tom hasn’t signed up for any church events this spring. He actually stepped down from his volunteer duties weeks ago, claiming he was far too busy.”