I spun around. The taxi lot was mostly empty. A shuttle bus idled thirty yards away, its windows tinted dark. I swallowed hard and opened the trunk. The gray backpack sat in the third row, zipper half-open. I reached inside. Not explosives. Not weapons.
Photographs. Dozens of them. Samantha leaving our house. Samantha picking Lucas up from school. Samantha jogging in the mornings. And then photos of me. With the woman we’d just dropped off. The angles were intimate. Close. Planned.
At the bottom of the bag was a single note. Practice makes perfect.
My stomach dropped. Lucas screamed from inside the car. “Dad! She’s here!”
I looked up. Across the lot, near the shuttle bus, stood Samantha. Same hair. Same jacket. Same face. She smiled slowly. And raised her hand in a gentle wave.
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