I watched Adrian walk down the street. I waited several seconds before rising, forcing my legs to move despite the dizziness creeping through my head. My pulse hammered erratically as I followed at a careful distance, every step amplifying the horrifying truth solidifying inside me. He did not glance over his shoulder. He did not rush. Ten blocks later, he entered a mid sized financial consulting firm, greeting the receptionist with familiarity.
I remained outside for nearly an hour, attempting to steady my breathing. If Adrian was alive and living openly under his own name, then the plane crash that had supposedly claimed his life had been something far darker than tragedy.
And if it had not been an accident, then who had helped him vanish?
By noon, I found myself standing once more near the townhouse. Claire emerged with the children, guiding them toward a black SUV with effortless authority. She appeared younger than me, perhaps in her early thirties, her expression composed and self possessed. The children greeted her with easy affection. Nothing about their dynamic suggested instability. Their life carried the unmistakable weight of permanence.