There it was. My husband’s car, parked neatly in the underground garage.
Every instinct told me to leave. Instead, I took my son’s hand and started down the concrete stairs. Each step echoed too loudly, my chest tightening with every one.
The garage was cold and damp. His car sat near the far wall. The engine was cold. Empty.
Then I heard voices—low, muffled—coming from a restricted stairwell across the garage. Light spilled from beneath the door marked Authorized Personnel Only.
I picked up my son and moved closer. As we reached the door, I heard my husband clearly.
“…the transfer’s finished,” he said. “This location is clean. No records.”
Another man replied, “Your wife still thinks you work for Hartwell?”
“She does,” my husband said. “She won’t question it.”
My legs nearly gave out.
Inside wasn’t a meeting room. It was a makeshift operation—folding tables, laptops, boxes of equipment stacked against the walls. This wasn’t unemployment.
