Part 1 of 3

The Homecoming I Had Imagined for Months

My name is Nolan Mercer.

After almost seven months away with the Marines, I was finally coming home.

My wife, Laurel, believed I would not arrive until Friday afternoon. What she did not know was that my schedule had changed, giving me the chance to return to North Carolina two days early.

For months, I had imagined surprising her.

I pictured Laurel opening the front door of our house outside Wilmington, staring at me for half a second, then throwing her arms around my neck.

On the drive home, I stopped at a small flower shop and bought a bouquet of white lilies.

They were her favorite.

I remember smiling when I placed them carefully on the passenger seat.

I thought I was driving toward one of the happiest moments of my life.

Instead, I drove straight into a mystery that would change our family forever.

Something Was Wrong Inside the House

It was shortly after noon when I pulled into our driveway.

Laurel’s car was there.

That made me smile.

I grabbed my bag and the flowers, walked to the front door, and quietly unlocked it.

The moment I stepped inside, the smile disappeared.

The house smelled strongly of cleaning solution.

Not the normal smell of someone who had cleaned the kitchen or mopped the floors.

This was overwhelming.

Sharp.

Chemical.

“Laurel?”

Nothing.

I stepped farther inside.

Then I saw the living room.

A side table had been moved several feet from where it normally stood. One dining chair had a damaged leg. A framed photograph that had always hung near the hallway was sitting facedown on a shelf.

There were fresh scratches along the lower part of the wall.

My stomach tightened.

“Laurel, I’m home.”

Still nothing.

I set my bag down and walked toward the kitchen.

That was where I saw something even more troubling.

Between two pale floor tiles were several dark reddish marks.

Someone had clearly tried to clean them.

I stared at them for several seconds before looking around the room again.

The lilies slipped from my hand and landed on the floor.

I ran upstairs.

Our bedroom was empty.

The bathroom was empty.

Every room was empty.

I called Laurel.

Straight to voicemail.

I called again.

Same thing.

That was when I called her father.

Her Father’s Story Didn’t Make Sense

Grant Holloway answered after several rings.

“Nolan?”

The way he said my name immediately bothered me.

“Where’s Laurel?”

There was silence.

Then he asked something strange.

“You’re home already?”

“Yes. Where is she?”

Another pause.

“Nolan, something happened.”

I gripped the phone harder.

“What happened?”

“Laurel was hurt.”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak.

“Where is she?”

“Cape Haven Medical Center.”

I grabbed my keys.

“What happened to her?”

Grant told me Laurel had gone out late three nights earlier. According to him, she somehow ended up alone several miles from home, where someone confronted her near a service road.

She had been found badly hurt.

I looked back at my kitchen.

At the damaged furniture.

At the stains someone had worked so hard to remove.

“Why didn’t anyone call me?”

“We thought you couldn’t be reached.”

“You have my number.”

“I was told you were unavailable.”

“Who told you that?”

Silence.

“Grant?”

Finally, he answered.

“Just get to the hospital, Nolan.”

Then he ended the call.

The Hospital Raised More Questions

I don’t remember much about the drive.

I remember traffic lights.

I remember gripping the steering wheel.

I remember telling myself not to imagine the worst.

When I reached the hospital, a doctor met me outside the intensive care unit.

Laurel had been unconscious for nearly three days.

She had several fractures, a serious wrist injury, a concussion, and extensive bruising.

The doctor explained everything carefully without making assumptions about how the injuries had happened.

I sat down.

“Who brought her here?”

The doctor checked the information.

“Her father.”

I looked up.

“Grant brought her?”

“According to the intake notes, yes.”

“From where?”

The doctor hesitated.

“We were told she had been found near a service road.”

Something inside me went cold.

Grant had not said he was the person who found her.

I asked another question.

“Why wasn’t I contacted?”

The doctor explained that Grant had identified himself as Laurel’s available family contact and said her husband was overseas and could not be reached.

That was not true.

My phone had been working.

Laurel had contacted me regularly.

Grant had my number.

I had spoken with Laurel less than forty-eight hours before she supposedly ended up on that road.

Someone had made sure I knew nothing.