Chapter 1: The Empty House
The strangest part about coming home early from deployment wasn't that my wife had left me.
It was that I stood inside my own house with my key in my hand and genuinely thought I'd walked into the wrong one.
I had four days in hand.
Four days.
I hadn't told Claire I was coming.
I wanted to surprise her.
After fourteen months away, I wanted to see the look on her face when I walked through that door.
I wanted my daughters to hear their father's voice.
I wanted to put my arms around my wife and finally stop counting the days.
The taxi dropped me at the end of the road because I told the driver I wanted to walk.
It was stupidly sentimental.
I remember thinking that as I adjusted the strap of my duffel bag against my shoulder.
I had spent the last four months learning how to move naturally with a prosthetic below my left knee. I still had days when the socket rubbed raw against my skin. I still took stairs slower than I wanted people to notice.
But that afternoon, none of that mattered.
I was going home.
Our house sat halfway up the road.
The curtains were open.
That was the first thing that bothered me.
Claire never opened the front curtains during the day.
"Everyone can see straight in," she'd always say.
I smiled to myself as I approached.
"Still the same," I whispered.
I reached the front door.
Pulled out my key.
Turned it.
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
And my smile disappeared.
There was no hall table.
No coats.
No umbrella stand.
No shoes.
No rug.
Nothing.
The carpet had been pulled up so cleanly that the gripper strips were exposed around the edges.
There were pale squares on the walls where our photographs had hung.
Wedding picture.
First Christmas together.
The ultrasound photographs.
The framed picture of Claire holding each twin in the hospital.
All gone.
I stood there for perhaps ten seconds.
My brain refused to connect the pieces.
"Claire?""
My voice sounded wrong in the empty hallway.
I stepped inside.
My boots echoed.
I looked toward the living room.
Empty.
The sofa was gone.
The television was gone.
The bookshelf was gone.
Even the lamp Claire had complained about for six years was gone.
I dropped my duffel bag.
It hit the floor with a dull thud.
"Claire?""
Nothing.
Then I heard it.
Crying.
Upstairs.
Two babies.
Both of them.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I grabbed the banister.
"Girls?""
I started up.
The first few steps were manageable.
Then my prosthetic caught slightly on the edge of one.
I froze.
Took a breath.
Kept going.
The crying became louder.
I reached the landing and pushed toward the nursery.
The door was open.
Inside were two cots.
Two fourteen-month-old girls.
And almost nothing else.
My mother was sitting on the floor between them.
She looked up.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
Her face went completely white.
"Mum?""
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
I looked at the babies.
One had her hands wrapped around the wooden bars of her cot.
The other was standing unsteadily, crying so hard her face was red.
I stepped toward them.
"My God.""
My mother reached for me.
"Don't.""
I stopped.
"What's happened?""
She began crying.
Not quietly.
Not gracefully.
Her shoulders shook.
"Mum, what's happened?""
"I'm so sorry.""
"What?""
"I'm so sorry, love.""
I looked around the nursery.
"Whose furniture is this?""
She wiped her face.
"Where's everything?""
She didn't answer.
"Mum.""
"I'm so sorry.""
"Where's Claire?""
That did it.
My mother looked at me.
And I saw something in her eyes that I had never seen before.
Fear.
Not fear for herself.
Fear of what she was about to tell me.
"There's a note," she whispered.
"Where?""
"On the dresser.""
I looked toward the wall.
"There isn't a dresser.""
She pointed.
"The shelf.""
I crossed the room.
There was one sheet of paper sitting on the shelf where the dresser had once stood.
Folded once.
My name was written across the front.
*Daniel.*
I stared at it.
My mother whispered, "I didn't read it.""
"How long have you been here?""
"Four days.""
"Four days?""
She nodded.
"Why are you here?""
"Claire called me.""
"When?""
"Tuesday.""
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