Dust motes dance in the late afternoon shafts, oblivious to the rupture. Hollis slides the bottom drawer of Daniel’s mahogany desk open. She only wanted a book of stamps. Instead, the heavy wood glides back to reveal a cold, metallic weight. A black semi-automatic pistol rests on a stack of papers, the faint, acrid scent of burnt powder still clinging to its barrel.
Beneath the weapon lies a leather-bound passport. She opens it to find Daniel’s face, but the name printed in gold is Thomas Thorne. Her breath catches, a sharp hitch in the quiet room. At the very bottom of the drawer rests a manila folder with a single tab. It bears her maiden name in his precise, architectural script: Hollis Mercer.
He knew who I was before we ever met.
A car door slams in the driveway, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot. Hollis stares at her own name on the dossier, her fingers trembling against the edge of the desk. Downstairs, the front door begins to unlock, the deadbolt scraping back as Daniel calls her name.
