There was a pause.
Then he whispered,
“Route 9 North.”
I went cold.
Route 9 was the road toward Loon Lake.
The Henderson construction site was only ten minutes from our house.
In the opposite direction.
“Mark, what time does your truck say?”
“Eight-fifty.”
He’d left home at six-forty.
He’d been driving north for more than two hours.
Toward the lake.
Toward the place where he’d proposed.
Toward the place he was planning to marry me again.
“Mark, listen carefully. Don’t drive anywhere else. Stay parked. Lock the doors. I’m coming to get you.”
He began crying.
“Lee, I’m scared.”
My heart broke.
“I know, sweetheart. I know. But I’m coming.”
He took a shaky breath.
“Please don’t hang up.”
“I won’t. Just stay on the phone with me.”
I grabbed my keys and purse.
Then rushed out of the house without even changing out of my slippers.
