The next morning, Michael found muddy bootprints near the back door—too small for his, too large for Sarah’s. They trailed off toward the yard, where the soil was freshly turned as though something had been dug and covered again. Michael crouched, tracing the outline, heart hammering in his chest.
That evening, he knew he couldn’t sacrifice his need to know for domestic peace. He demanded answers. “Who’s been here, Sarah? Tell me the truth.” Her eyes flashed panic before she steadied herself. “Neighbors help sometimes. Stop imagining things.” Her calm words only deepened his doubt. If it was innocent, why did she tremble at his question?