What I didn’t say was that every time Michael left, something about the house shifted. The silence got heavier. The shadows in the corners seemed darker.

And always—always—Mr. Whitaker, my father-in-law, would call me into his study for one of his strange conversations.

At first, it was all quite harmless.

“Claire,” he’d call, his voice faint and formal.

I’d walk into the study and find him sitting in his usual armchair beneath the yellow lamp, the air thick with the smell of old wood and faint traces of tobacco. He’d ask questions about dinner—if I’d remembered to add lemon to the baked trout—or if I had locked the back door.

But lately, his tone had changed.