Two days before that, Allison’s house in the northern suburbs of Chicago had been so silent she could hear the soft whir of her laptop fan.
Her husband, Evan Whitaker, was preparing for a trip to New York. He worked in corporate acquisitions, the sort of career built on late-night calls, custom suits, and steady eyes during ruthless negotiations. That morning, he stood at the end of their bed, placing folded shirts into a black suitcase while Allison rested against the doorway, coffee mug in hand.
“Text me when you land,” she said.
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