Sarah’s phone rang late the next evening. Michael answered, but silence filled the line—except for a faint rasp of breathing before the call disconnected. He stood with the receiver pressed to his ear long after, pulse thudding, wondering who wanted Sarah but wouldn’t speak to him.
In Sarah’s desk, Michael found a folded envelope of cash tucked beneath bills. A note lay on top in unfamiliar handwriting: For the groceries—more soon. No signature, just a firm, masculine scrawl. He shoved it back quickly, unsettled by the intimacy of another hand in his home.