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.

Across the street, the fire chief was barking orders at his crew. Hoses unfurled and water hit the flames with a violent hiss.

“What are we going to do now?” Toby asked.

I had no answer for him. The question was not just where we would sleep tonight.

It was a question of who we could ever trust again. I wondered how you survive the moment you realize your husband tried to erase you.

If I called the police right now, what would I even say? My husband is in another state and has a perfect alibi.

The city loved Dominic. He was the man who shook hands at charity events and posted perfect photos.

People would look at me like I had lost my mind. They would tell me that trauma makes people confused and suggest that I rest.

Then they would call Dominic to come pick me up. The thought made my blood turn to ice.

I forced myself to breathe slowly to keep from hyperventilating. I needed help from outside of his social circle.

That was when my father’s voice returned to me. He had been a cynical man who saw things I did not want to see.

Two years ago, he had been in a hospital room in downtown Chicago. He had gripped my hand with a strange urgency.