That Thursday evening, the rain was falling heavily, a relentless drumming on the roof that echoed the rhythm of my anxious heartbeat. I was sitting on the sofa, wrapped in our favorite blanket, the flickering light from the television casting shadows around the room. Liam had gone out, just to buy a loaf of bread and some milk. It was a quick errand; I figured he’d be back in no time.
I could hear the wind howling outside, one of those nights when the trees bend and sway as if dancing to a melancholy tune. I glanced at the clock; it was past eight. He should have been home by now. A pang of sadness rippled through me. I picked up my phone, the screen lighting up with a family photo of him smiling in front of our favorite vacation spot. I sighed, then called. Straight to his voicemail. Nothing unusual. I tapped my foot on the coffee table, the rhythmic movement hardly distracting me.
When the doorbell was held, the silence was brutal. I jumped, nearly spilling my tea. I opened the door and found two police officers, their faces grave and somber, their uniforms dripping wet from the rain. At the sight of them, a shiver ran down my spine, instinct telling me something was wrong.
Those words rang out like a hammer blow against a windowpane. They explained how he’d lost control on the bend at the edge of town, the worn tires, the slippery road. They said it was an accident. An accident. I listened, my heart pounding, nodding my head as if I understood, but inside, I was screaming.
