Right after my husband left for his business trip, my six-year-old gripped my hand and quietly said, “Mom… we can’t go back home. This morning I heard Dad on the phone, talking about something that involves us and it didn’t sound right.” So we didn’t go back.

I remembered him increasing his life insurance policy last month. I thought of the late night calls he took behind locked doors.

I even remembered a phrase I overheard while half asleep. “It has to look like an accident,” he had muttered into the phone.

I stood up slowly and felt a cold chill wash over me. “Okay, I believe you,” I said.

Relief flooded Toby’s face so fast that it hurt my heart to see it. We walked to the SUV in silence.

I buckled him in with shaking hands and drove away from the airport. I did not take our usual route home.

I circled the neighborhood wide and approached our street from a back entrance. I parked on a side road where the shadows were deepest.

Our house sat there looking like a sanctuary. The porch light was on and the curtains were drawn tight.

We waited in the dark cabin of the car. Minutes passed like hours.

Then the dark van turned onto our street. It moved with a predatory slowness that made my skin crawl.

It stopped right in front of our driveway. Two men stepped out of the vehicle.

They were not wearing uniforms. One of them reached into his pocket and pulled out a key.